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COEiKIGHT DEPOSm 







A SON OF THE CITY 






A Son ofiL City 

^ Sior'^ ofBoyLi^ 


Merman Gastrell Seely 


Illustrations by 

Fred J. Arting 



CHICAGO 

A. C. McClur^ 6c Ca 

1817 


Copyright 

A. C McClurg & Co. 
1917 


Published October, 1917 



W. F. HALL PRINTING COMPANY, CHICAGO 

OCT -9 1917 

©GU476462 


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THE COMPANION OF MANY A 
YOUTHFUL STROLL THROUGH 
CITY PARK AND SUBURBAN FIELD 


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CONTENTS 

CHAPTER page 

I In Which Our Hero Goes Fishing ... i 

II In Which He Goes to School 23 

III He Plays a Trick on the Doctor .... 45 

IV In Which a Terrific Battle Is Waged . . 66 

V He Composes a Love Missive 91 

VI In Which We Learn the Secret Code of 

the “ Tigers 116 

VH He Goes to a Halloween Party 136 

VHI Wherein He Resolves to Get Married . . 157 

IX He Saves for “Four Rooms Furnish- 
ed Complete” 179 

X Concerns Santa Claus Mostly 198 

XI He Has a Very Happy Christmas .... 221 

XII In Which the Path of True Love Does Not 

Run Smoothly 241 

XHI He Crushes and Humiliates a Rival . . . 259 

XIV He Buys Valentines 277 

XV The Spring Brings Baseball 297 

XVI More About “ The Greatest Game in 

the World” 314 

XVH He’s “Through With Girls” 332 


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* I 



A SON OF THE CITY 


CHAPTER I 

IN WHICH OUR HERO GOES FISHING 

OTARTLED from a sound sleep, he fumbled 
^ blindly beneath the bed that he might throttle 
the insistent alarm clock before the clamor awak- 
ened the other members of the household. Then 
he lay back and listened breathlessly for parental 
voices of inquiry as to what he might be doing at 
the unearthly hour of half-past three on a late Sep- 
tember morning. 

Far down the railroad embankment which passed 
the rear of the house, an engine puffed lazily city- 
ward with a load of empty freight cars. Over the 
elevated tracks a mile to the south, a train rumbled 
somnolently towards the park terminal, and under 
the eaves of the house, just above his room, two 
sparrows squabbled sleepily. Inside, the only audi- 
ble sounds were the chirpings of a cricket some- 
where down the hall, and the furious, mufifled 
pounding of his own little heart. 

He glanced from the window near the head of 
his bed. The air was oppressive with a strange, 
almost rural quietude. In the east, a faint streak 
of light brought the tree tops of the park into indis- 
1 


2 


A SON OF THE CITY 


tinct relief, and to the north a thin line of smoke 
floated apathetically from a hotel chimney to show 
that a light breeze from the west augured favorably 
for the morning’s sport. 

Stockings, knickerbockers, and blouse were drawn 
on with unwonted rapidity. His coat and necktie 
he left hanging over the back of the chair, dis- 
dained as unnecessary impediments on a fishing 
trip. Then with a final glance from the window at 
the fast-graying sky, he reached behind the book- 
case for his carefully 
concealed pole and tackle, 
gathered his shoes in one 
hand, and tiptoed down 
the pitchy hall with the 
stealth of a cat. 

Down the stairway he 
went, step at a time, 
scarcely daring to breathe 
as he shifted his weight 
again and again from 
one foot to the other. 
On the first landing, a 
board creaked with 
^ alarming distinctness. 
I Came a maternal voice: 
“John.” 

Her son hugged the 
stairway in a very agony of fear lest his carefully 



IN WHICH OUR HERO GOES FISHING 


3 


made plans had been spoiled. Why hadn’t he 
walked along the end of the steps as bitter expe- 
rience had taught? He knew that board was loose. 
Again the well-known tones : 

‘‘John, what are you doing?” 

A subdued babel of conversation in the big south 
room followed, in which his father’s deep bass took 
a prominent part. 

“Nonsense, Jane, you’re imagining things!” 

“But you know I forbade fishing during school 
mornings. And he was looking at the DuPree’s 
weather vane when he watered the lawn last night. 
Get up and see what he’s doing.” 

John drew a sigh of relief as the deep voice 
sounded a sleepy protest. Minutes passed. His 
legs became cramped from inaction, yet he dared not 
stir. Were his parents asleep? Or was Mrs. 
Fletcher waiting merely until some tell-tale noise 
enabled her to order John senior forth on an expedi- 
tion which would result in certain detection? If 
he had only avoided that misstep I 

Then the kindly fast-mail thundered over the rail- 
road tracks and enabled the seeker after forbidden 
pleasures to scurry to the first floor under cover 
of the disturbance. 

In the hallway, the boy deposited his shoes and 
tackle very cautiously on the carpet, and tiptoed 
over to the unused grate. There he extracted from 
behind the gas log a package of sandwiches, sur- 


4 


A SON OF THE CITY 


reptitiously assembled after supper the night before. 
Then with both hands grasping the doorknob firmly, 
he strained upwards, that weight be thrown off the 
squeaking hinges as much as possible, and swung 
the door back, inch by inch, until the opening per- 
mitted a successful exit. 

The old cat bounded from her bed on the window 
ledge with a thud and mewed plaintively for admit- 
tance as he stood with one hand on the screen door, 
and fumbled in his pockets. Sinkers, spare hooks, 
a line with a nail at one end on which to string 
possible victims of his skill, ‘‘ eats,” his dollar watch 
that he might know when breakfast time came 
around — all present and accounted for. 

The family pet protested volubly as he blocked 
her ingress with one foot and closed the door as 
slowly and noiselessly as it had swung open. A 
moment spent in lacing his shoes, a consoling pat 
for puss, and he was off on the dogtrot for Silvey’s 
house, with tackle swinging easily to and fro in one 
hand and a noiseless whistle of exultation coming 
from half-parted lips which became more and more 
audible as his rapidly echoing footsteps increased 
the distance from home. For he had made good 
his escape, the strange fragrance of the cool, early 
air with its absence of city smoke went to his head 
like wine and set his pulses a-throb with a very joy 
of living, and five hours, three hundred glorious 
minutes, if the excursion were stretched a bit past 


IN WHICH OUR HERO GOES FISHING 


5 



breakfast time, of en- 
chanting, tantalizing sport 
lay before him. 

A short distance from the corner, 
he turned in abruptly at a frame 
house which was distinguished 
from its neighbors by unusually 
ornate fretwork about the porch 
and gables, and tiptoed gently over 
the struggling grass on the narrow 
sidelawn. For it was here that the 
Silvey family lived, and if Bill 
were his boon companion with 
tastes akin to his, strange to relate, 
the Silvey elders were light sleep- 
ers with the same propensities as 
his own parents for curbing 
unlawful fishing expeditions, 
and there was need of caution. 

He fumbled momentarily 
along the dark sidewall, 
yanked at a cord which 
swayed idly to and fro with each light air current, 
and gazed expectantly upward. Nothing happened. 





6 


A SON OF THE CITY 


Again a jerk, given this time with a certain vindic- 
tive delight. A muffled ‘‘Ouch!” came from the 
open window as a splotch of animated white 
appeared indistinctly behind the dark screen. 

“Trying to pull my big toe off?” angrily. 

John snickered. “ Got the worms ? ” he asked. 

Silvey swallowed his wrath and nodded. “ Sh-sh, 
not so loud. You’ll wake the folks. The can’s on 
the back steps. Ain’t many worms though. I 
hunted under the porch and down the tracks and all 
over. But the ground’s too dry.” 

John shook the nearly empty can disparagingly 
as Silvey joined him on the back lawn a moment 
later. 

“Jiminy,” he whispered, “that all you could 
find?” 

His chum nodded. “Maybe there’s old worms 
or minnies from yesterday left on the pier. Or we 
can cut up the first fish for perch bait. Come on ! 
Beat you over the tracks.” 

They scaled the wire fence which barricaded the 
embankment, and cut across the long parallel lines 
of rails like frisky colts. Past the few unkempt 
buildings of the neighborhood dairy, over the small 
bit of pasturage where the master thereof kept a 
dozen cows that his customers might think their 
milk was fresh, daily, and across the cement road, 
they scampered at top speed, to pull up panting just 
inside the park. 


IN WHICH OUR HERO GOES FISHING 


7 


‘‘Bet you I get to the lagoon bridge first,” said 
Silvey when their breathing grew less labored. 

Off they raced again, now on the trim gravel 
walks, now on the springy dew-laden turf, frighten- 
ing a myriad of insects from their shelters as the 
pair brushed aside protruding shrubbery and 
brought a chorus of reproof from rusty-plumed 
grackles who were gathering in the open spaces for 
the long migration south. 

As their footsteps echoed and re-echoed between 
the stone buttresses of the wooden planked bridge, 
John halted to dig frantically at his shoe top. 

“ Wait a minute, Sil. My heel’s full of cinders.” 

He shook the offending boot free of the irritants, 
relaced it and leaned over the bridge rail for a 
moment. From beneath, northward, stretched the 
park lagoon calm and dark in the uncertain morning 
light. Fronting him rose the stately columns and 
porticoes of the park museum, once a member of 
an exposition whose glories are almost forgotten, 
which now veiled its need of repair in the kindly 
dawn and formed a symphony in gray with the 
willow-studded, low-lying lagoon banks. The air 
throbbed with the subdued noises of awakening 
animal life. In a shrub near them, a catbird cleared 
his throat in a few harsh notes as a prelude to a 
morning of tuneful parody, and on the slope below, 
a fat autumn-plumaged robin dug frantically in the 
sod for fugitive worms. 


8 


A SON OF THE CITY 


“ My ! Isn’t it just peachy ? ” breathed John ecstat- 
ically. 

'‘Yes,” assented his companion, intent upon the 
lesser spectacle of the robin. “ Don’t you wish you 
could find worms like he does, Fletch ? ” 

Once more they resumed their journey lake wards, 
breaking into the inevitable dogtrot as the long, 
dark pier came in sight. At the land end, John 
stooped to pick up a few sun-dried minnows which 
lay on a plank, and a little farther on Silvey grabbed 
eagerly at an earth-filled tomato can. 

“Nary a worm,” he exclaimed in disgust, as he 
threw the tin into the lake. 

But shortly, their diligent search was rewarded 
by finding a tobacco-tin which contained at least a 
dozen samples of the squirming bait, and the 
anxiety regarding that problem was permanently 
allayed. 

But one disciple of Izaak Walton had arrived 
before the boys, and he sat crouched in a huddled, 
lonely heap at the end of the pier, in a manner which 
seemed scarcely human. As they drew nearer, John 
broke into a sudden exclamation : 

“ Old hunchback ! Been out here all night again. 
Wonder if he’s caught anything! ” 

As they passed the first of his multitude of throw- 
lines and poles, John leaned forward and peered 
down on the water. 

“Look, Sil,” he pointed at the long string of 


IN WHICH OUR HERO GOES FISHING 


9 


perch which floated to and fro with the sluggish 
water. Aren’t they peaches?” 

He made a motion as if to joint his rod. The 
cripple drew a sharp, hissing breath from between 
thick, distorted lips and waved him away. Silvey 
caught his chum’s arm warningly. 

“No use of fishing beside him” he asserted. 
“Don’t you know that, John? Brings bad luck to 
everyone ’cept himself, he does. I tried it one 
morning. He kept hauling them in, all the time, and 
I couldn’t catch a thing.” 

John shook his head skeptically as they moved 
over to the other side of the pier. 

“ He does ! ” reiterated Silvey. “ Never’s the day 
I’ve been out here that he hasn’t a lot. And look 
at that,” as a shining, squirming object rose unwill- 
ingly from the water. “ I’ll bet I couldn’t catch one 
if I was there. It’s because he’s hunchbacked. I’m 
telling you.” 

As John jointed his bamboo pole, he cast a fur- 
tive glance at the poor, misshapen being, and caught 
a touch of Silvey’s superstitious fear. 

“ Maybe,” he admitted, as he reached for the 
worm can. 

Hooks baited, the boys dropped their lines in the 
water and sat down to dangle their legs to and fro 
over the pier’s edge as they waited for the first hint 
as to the morning’s luck. Possibly a quarter of an 
hour elapsed before Silvey’s light steel rod gave a 


10 


A SON OF THE CITY 


twitch, to be followed by another and still another. 
Its owner jerked a denuded hook high in the air. 

“ First bite, first bite ! ” he shouted, for that honor 
was ever a point of spirited contest on the pair’s 
many expeditions. 

‘‘ Hard ? ” asked John breathlessly. 

‘‘Hard!^’ repeated Silvey, boastfully exultant. 
‘‘Hard? Goll-e-e-e, yes. Didn’t you see him? 
Bent the tip most a foot. Took the worm, too.” 

Then the jointed bamboo began to shake ever so 
slightly and John leaned intently forward. 

“Bite?” queried Silvey in turn. 

“He’s nibbling,” said John cautiously without 
taking his glance from the flexible tip. 

“Wait until he takes the hook,” advised Bill. 
John braced himself and yanked a luckless perch 
high in the air. As it came down on the pier with 
a thud, his friend sprang to his feet. 

“ That-a-boy ! ” he yelled exultantly as his fingers 
extracted the hook. John brought out the fish 
stringer, and the unfortunate minnow, firmly tied 
by the gills, was lowered slowly into the water. The 
pair watched its spasmodic efforts at escape with a 
great deal of gusto. 

“Ain’t so small, is he, John?” asked Silvey opti- 
mistically, as he leaned over and looked down from 
an angle which only a small boy could maintain 
without losing his balance. “ Bet you it’s going to 
be a peach of a day.” 


IN WHICH OUR HERO GOES FISHING 


11 


The pier was now rapidly filling. A plethoric, 
sandy-haired German squatted beside the hunch- 
back, watching an unproductive pole with a patience 
worthy of a better cause. At John’s corner, a party 
of voluble loafers joked noisily as they unwound 
long, many-hooked throwlines and jointed non- 
descript rods. Beside Bill, a phlegmatic Scandi- 
navian puffed morosely at an empty pipe. Just 
beyond, a fat negress shifted her bulk from time to 
time as she baited the hooks on one of her husband’s 
numerous fishing outfits. Farther landward, a 
mixed throng — nattily clad business men who were 
snatching a few minutes of sport before business 
called, down at the heel out-of-works with nothing 
to do and all day to do it in, here a woman with a 
colorful shirtwaist, there a couple of noisy school- 
boys — made the sides of the pier bristle like the 
branches of a thicket hedge. 

The faint tinge of orange in the eastern sky 
deepened to a radiant crimson glow. A glistening, 
fast-widening, crescent sliver of the sun appeared 
on the horizon and painted a long golden path on the 
rippled lake, and still the lonely perch waited in 
vain for a companion in misery. 

Silvey jerked his line from the water and exam- 
ined the untouched bait in disgust. 

“Just like it was last time,” he ejaculated. “ I’m 
going down the pier and see what the other fellows 
are catching.” 


12 


A SON OF THE CITY 


He jammed his pole between two bent nails in a 
plank and was off, stopping now and then to peer 
downward at some trophy as he sauntered along. 
John did likewise with his rod and stretched out 
on the rough boards to look lazily up at the clear 
sky. It wasn’t half bad after all, even if the fish 
weren’t biting. There was something in this get- 
ting up and over to the park before the smoke got 
into the air, to listen to the songs of the birds and 
watch the throng of people, that more than atoned 
for the lack of luck. 

He pulled out his watch dreamily — a quarter of 
six and still but one captive — and let his glance 
follow the wake of a graceful, white-hulled gasoline 
cruiser which chugged its way up from the south. 
Presently Silvey returned to break in upon his 
revery with the exciting news that a man near the 
life-preserver post had caught five fish. John sat up. 

‘‘What did he catch ’em on?” he asked as he 
stretched his arms. 

“ Minnows.” 

“ Let’s try a couple of ours.” 

They scraped the hooks free of the whitened 
worms with their finger nails and rebaited, only to 
find that the sun-parched flesh softened and floated 
away soon after it was lowered into the water. 

“ Have to buy some fresh ones ! Got any money ? ” 

A thorough search resurrected a worn copper that 
had lain in Silvey’s back pocket until he had for- 


IN WHICH OUR HERO GOES FISHING 


13 


gotten it — else the coin had gone the way of many 
another that had purchased peppermints at the 
school store. John surrendered a penny that had 
been given him the night before for a perfect spell- 
ing paper. They viewed the scanty hoard on the 
sun-bleached plank reflectively. 

“Ask him.” John indicated the Scandinavian, 
who was well supplied with the desired bait. Silvey 
stood up and jingled the two pennies in his grimy 
hand with the air of a young millionaire. 

Yes, the fisherman would sell some. How many 
were desired? 

“Aw, give me,” the boy paused, as if considering 
the amount sufficient for their needs, “ give me two 
cents' worth.” 

The merchant shook his head. “ Two cents ? ” he 
sneered. “Naw! Won’t sell any for less ’n a 
nickel.” 

A gaunt, anaemic southerner, who was with the 
party of idlers, spoke up. 

“ Yeah, boy. What’s the matter ? ” 

Silvey turned ruefully. “Ain’t got money 
enough to buy some minnies,” he explained. 

The tall figure stooped abruptly, fumbled in a bat- 
tered basket which held a miscellaneous assemblage 
of bait, throwlines, newspapers, and food, and drew 
forth a handful of the diminutive fish. 

“Yeah, boy,” he smiled. 

Silvey offered the two coppers in payment. 


14 


A SON OF THE CITY 


‘‘Keep ’em, boy, keep ’em,” with an indignant 
glance at the imperturbable fish monopolist. “I 
ain’t like some folks.” 

The boys rebaited their hooks joyfully. The 
cruiser which John had sighted earlier in the morn- 
ing drew up within easy distance of the pier and 
dropped anchor. Two of her crew appeared pres- 
ently in swimming suits and dove overboard for a 
morning plunge. From her diminutive, weathered 
cabin came the rattle of cooking utensils and the hiss 
of frying bacon as the cook of the day prepared 
breakfast. Bill stirred restlessly. 

“Let’s have a look at the sandwiches,” he sug- 
gested. 

They stretched themselves full length on the pier 
end and, with an occasional eye to the fishing poles, 
munched the uncouth slabs of bread and jam con- 
tentedly. Silvey read the name on the boat’s stern 
with interest. 

“Detroit,” he gasped. “Gee, Fletch, don’t you 
wish you had a boat like that with all the gasoline 
to run her?” 

John’s brown eyes grew dreamy. “Just don’t 
you, though! We could ride down the canal out in 
the Illinois River and down the Mississippi to St. 
Louis. No staying after school, no ’rithmetic les- 
sons, no lawns to cut or front porches to wash on 
Saturdays. We’d get up when we liked and fish when 
we liked, and loaf around all day. If money ran 


IN WHICH OUR HERO GOES FISHING 


15 


out, we’d find a place where there wasn’t any bridge, 
and ferry people across the river for a nickel or a 
dime, or whatever they charge down there. Maybe, 
too, we could get a lot of red neckties and shirts 
with brown and yellow stripes and sell ’em to the 
darkies for a dollar apiece. Sid DuPree says 
they buy those things and he ought to know. He 
spent summer before last down South with his 
ma!” 

“Where’d we get the money to buy ’em in the 
first place ? ” asked the practical Silvey. 

His chum’s face clouded. “ Shucks, Sil, you’re 
always spoiling things. But,” more hopefully, “ we 
needn’t really worry about money anyway. All 
the books I’ve read about the South tell how kind 
folks are down there, and how they won’t allow 
a stranger to go hungry, not even if they have to 
give him their last hunk of cornbread. So if ferry- 
ing didn’t pay, all we’d have to do would be to land, 
walk up to the nearest house, and knock at the door. 
When the big mammy cook — they always have ’em 
in the books — came to the door, we’d just look 
at her and say, ' We’re hungry.’ ” 

Silvey nodded, content to revel in the glories of 
the daydream which John’s more vivid imagination 
was spinning. 

‘‘We’d go all the way down the Mississippi to 
New Orleans. Maybe we’d catch some alligators to 
make things exciting, and maybe some big yellow 


16 


A SON OF THE CITY 


river catfish. I read about one once that was six 
feet long. And when we arrived, they’d put our 
pictures in the newspapers, with a big lot of print 
after them, just the way they do when someone 
comes to town here who’s done something. We’d 
win a lot of race cups, and folks would say to their 
friends, ‘See those two kids there? They took a 
launch all the way down the river from Lake Mich- 
igan by themselves.’ We’d be it all the time we 
were there.” 

Silvey, under the spell of the alluring picture, let 
his gaze roam dreamily around until it lighted upon 
an excited group down the pier. He sprang to his 
feet energetically. 

“ Fletch ! Look ! A man drowned, maybe. Come 
on quick!” Such alluring possibilities may come 
true in a city. 

They sprinted up to the rapidly increasing crowd, 
and wriggled, boylike, past obstructing arms and 
between tense bodies until they found themselves in 
the inner line of the circle. A carp of a size suffi- 
cient to excite the envy of the neighboring fisher- 
men lay with laboring gills upon the water-spattered 
planking. The lads gazed in open-mouthed admira- 
tion at the large, glistening scales, the staring eyes, 
and the twitching, murky red fins. 

“Weighs five pounds if he’s an ounce,” orated 
the proud captor. “ Says I to myself when he bit, 
‘ I’ve got a bird there,’ and I was right.” 


IN WHICH OUR HERO GOES FISHING 


17 


John turned to his chum with the inevitable ques- 
tion : 

Gee, don’t you wish we could catch a fish like 
that?” 

And Silvey made the inevitable reply : 

‘‘ Just don’t you, though ! ” 

They watched breathlessly as the fisherman 
forced his stringer between the large gills and out 
through the gaping mouth, and tied it in a secure 
double knot that there might be no danger of an 
escape. As the rebellious captive was lowered into 
the water, and the throng about the spot began to 
thin, the successful angler seated himself again. 

“ What ’d you catch him on? ” John broke out. 

‘‘ ’Taters.” 

“ Do big fellows like that bite on potatoes ? ” 

They were assured that such was the case. 

“Say,” John scratched nervously at a knot in a 
pier plank as he summoned courage for his request. 
“ Give me a hunk, will you ? I never caught a fish 
that big in my life and I sure want to!” 

“ Catch.” The man’s eyes flashed in amusement 
as he opened a deep cigar box and tossed out a half- 
boiled tuber. 

For a second time that morning, the boys tested 
a new type of bait. Hoping to change his luck, John 
cast far out to the very limit of the ten cents’ worth 
of fishing line on his reel and sat, tensely hope- 
ful, for five dragging minutes. Then he jammed 


18 


A SON OF THE CITY 


the pole into its old resting place between the bent 
nails. 

No use/’ he exclaimed in disgust to Silvey. 

Hardly were the words out of his mouth before 
the reel gave a sharp click of alarm. The sagging 
line grew taut and rose more and more from the 
water as an unseen something made a frightened 
break for liberty. John seized the handle as the rod 
threatened to drop into the water and jumped to his 
feet. 

'‘Gee!” he cried, half frightened by the weight 
and resistance of the fish, "Gee!” 

Silvey strained his eyes far out in an effort to 
descry the captive. The southerner who had given 
the minnows sprang forward with a shout of " Play 
him, boy, play him. Give him line until he turns or 
he’ll break away.” 

"Can’t,” John gasped, his heart in his mouth. 
" It’s all out, now.” 

As the cheap line stretched almost to the breaking 
point, the fish circled rapidly landward, then, 
alarmed by the shoaling water, sped back, close by 
the pier, for the open lake. The minnow monopolist 
jerked his lines clear of impending entanglement 
and scowled. 

"Take in slack, boy, take in slack,” shouted the 
southerner. 

John’s fingers spun around like a paper pinwheel. 
Again the line tightened and again the carp turned 


IN WHICH OUR HERO GOES FISHING 


19 


to the shore. The news that a big one was hooked 
spread far down the pier, and the boys, for the first 
time in their lives, tasted the delight of being the 
cynosure of the eyes of a rapidly increasing crowd. 
The man with the potatoes had forced his way 
to the pier's edge and gave advice with an almost 
proprietary manner. The fat negress’ husband, 
roused from his inaction, gibbered delightedly as 
the line circled more and more slowly through the 
water, while John panted and reeled, slacked and 
rereeled line until the exhausted fish rose to the 
surface directly beneath him. 

“ Gee," gasped Silvey, awe-struck. 

‘‘No wonder he fought like an alligator fish," 
vouchsafed the southerner. 

“Who says 'taters don’t catch anything?" asked 
the man of that bait proudly. “Twenty pounds or 
I’ll eat my shirt." 

Cautiously, very cautiously, lest the fish nlake 
a sudden frightened dash for liberty, John drew 
in line to raise the captive from the water. 

“ Y’all wait a minute," said the southerner. 
“ Land him in my minny net. That’s safer." 

But the minnow net, thanks to its abbreviated 
handle, lacked an easy two feet of the water, reach 
as the gaunt, outstretched figure might. 

“H’ist away," he ordered finally. “I’ll shove 
under when he gets high enough." 

Inch by inch, the quivering body rose from the 


20 


A SON OF THE CITY 


water. Appeared above the wire rim of the net, first 
the staring, goggle eyes, then the slowly laboring 
gills, the twitching side fins, and six inches of glis- 
tening scales. 

Now ! ” shouted the southerner. 

Then, as if sensing the imminent danger, the 
great body gave a convulsive wrench, the light hook 
tore through the soft-fleshed mouth, and the carp, 
rebounding from the bark-covered piling, dove into 
the lake with a splash and disappeared from sight. 

“ Shucks ! ” ejaculated Silvey. 

John sat down on the pier suddenly and very 
quietly. His tackle had snarled, and as the throng 
returned to their own poles, he picked at the tangle 
of line in the reel while his lower lip trembled 
piteously. 

To have landed that Goliath among fishes ! What 
a triumphal procession it would have been — a 
march down the home street with such a captive. 
How Sid DuPree and the Harrison boys would 
have stared ! He rebaited and dropped his line for- 
lornly into the water. 

“Maybe he’ll bite again,” he suggested, hoping 
against fate. 

The minutes dragged. The gaunt, gray- faced 
southerner stretched out on the pier for a nap. The 
sandy-haired German rose from his seat beside the 
hunchback, stretched the stiffness from his arms, 
and un jointed his pole. The last neatly dressed 


IN WHICH OUR HERO GOES FISHING 


21 


business man was walking briskly from the pier. 
Silvey yawned listlessly. 

‘‘Breakfast time, ain’t it?” he asked. 

John’s watch showed a quarter after eight. 
Slowly they reeled in the dripping lines, freed the 
hooks from all traces of water-soaked bait, and dis- 
mounted their rods. As they left the lake shore, 
the sun’s rays became oppressive with heat. The 
air had lost the cool, fresh fragrance of early morn- 
ing, and hinted of soot-producing factories and 
unsavory slaughter houses. Suburban trains thun- 
dered incessantly cityward, blending the snorts of 
their locomotives with the rumble of innumerable 
elevated trains and the clamoring bells of the sur- 
face cars. 

When they came to the tall poplars which marked 
the entrance to the park, Silvey looked down and 
viewed the fruit of their morning’s labors with dis- 
gust. 

“He’s awful small,” he said shamefacedly. 
“Throw him into the bushes.” 

John raised the diminutive perch into the air and 
regarded it glumly. “ Cat’ll eat him, I guess.” 

“Have to sneak home the back way, then,” said 
Silvey. 

The return home by way of the railroad tracks 
was ever their route when a fishing trip had been 
unsuccessful, for it avoided conveniently all notice 
by jeering playmates. 


22 


A SON OF THE CITY 


‘‘Don't you wish we’d landed that big fellow?” 
breathed John, half to himself, as he reviewed men- 
tally that thrilling struggle on the pier. 

“ Just don’t you, though ! ” echoed Bill, regretfully. 
They walked on for some minutes in silence. As 
they left the cement walk for the little footpath 
which led across the corner vacant lot to a break in 
the railroad fence, Silvey roused himself. 

“ What you going to say to your mother ? ” 

John shrugged his shoulders. “Don’t know. 
What you going to say to yours ? ” 

So they fell to planning their excuses. 


CHAPTER II 


IN WHICH HE GOES TO SCHOOL 

T) UT an hour had passed since his protesting 
assertion that “Once doesn’t matter, Mother, 
and anyway, it’s school time,” had been followed 
by flight to the many-windowed, red-brick build- 
ing, and already the surroundings of dreary black- 
board, dingy-green calsomine, and oft-re varnished 
yellow pine woodwork were becoming irksome. 
The spelling lesson had not been so unpleasant, for 
he could sense the tricky “ei-s” and “ie-s” with 
uncanny cleverness, but ’rithmetic — the very name 
oppressed him. What use could be found in such 
prosy problems as “A and B together own three- 
hundred acres of land. A’s share is twice as much 
as B’s. How much does each own?” Or “A field 
contains four hundred square yards. One side is 
four times as long as the other. What are its 
dimensions ? ” 

Miss Brown closed the hated, brown-covered book 
and turned to write the arithmetic homework on 
the blackboard. Instantly John’s attention wan- 
dered to objects and sounds far more interesting 
than the barren, sultry school room. 

A couple of sparrows flew from the roof of the 
23 


24 


A SON OF THE CITY 


school to the window ledge nearest him, intent on 
their noisy quarrel, and he gave a scarcely percepti- 
ble sigh. Birds could enjoy the sunshine unmolested 
— why not he? A horse sounded a rapid tattoo of 
hoof beats over the heated street macadam below 
and he longed — as he had longed for the launch 
that morning — for a vehicle which would take him 
along untraveled roads to a country where schools 
were not, and small boys fished and played games 
the long days through. Next, a three-year-old 
stubbed her toe against the street curbing opposite 
the school and voiced her grief with unrestrained 
and therefore enviable freedom. John stirred un- 
easily and meditated upon the interminable stretch 
of four days which must elapse before Saturday. 
Then a majestic thunderhead in the blazing Septem- 
ber sky caught his attention and the miracle hap- 
pened. 

He was on his back in the big field of his uncle’s 
Michigan farm, gazing upward at the white, rapidly 
shifting clouds. The unimpeded western breeze 
made little harmonies of sound as it swept through 
the tall, waving grass; strange birds carolled joy- 
ously from the orchard by the road, and near at 
hand the old, brown Jersey lowed lovingly to her 
ungainly calf. From the more distant chicken coop 
came the cackle of hens and the boastful crowing 
of a rooster. 

A shift of the thought current, and the fat, easy- 


IN WHICH HE GOES TO SCHOOL 


25 


going team dragged the lumbering, slowly moving 
wagon over the four-mile stretch of sand road to 
town, while he sat on the driver’s seat to listen to 
the hired man’s tales of army service in the Philip- 
pines, or to watch the ever-shifting panorama of 
flower and bird and animal life which he loved so 
well. Past the ramshackle farm of the first neigh- 
bor to the north, past the little deserted country 
school house, past the pressed-steel home of a would- 
be agriculturist, which had rusted to an artistic red, 
and down to the winding river which flanked the 
hamlet through banks lined with white birches and 
graceful poplars — ‘‘popples” the hired man called 
them. There was good fishing in the river, too. 
Once a twenty pound muskellunge had been caught, 
and bass were plentiful. 

But better still than that was his uncle’s well- 
stocked trout stream. Again he stumbled over the 
root-obstructed footpath which ran along the east 
bank, stopping now and then to untangle his hook 
and line as he forced his way past thick, second- 
growth underbrush, or to let his hook float with the 
current past some particularly promising bit of 
watercress. There was the fallen, half-rotted log 
under which the swift current had dug a deep hole 
in the sandbed for the big fellows to haunt and 
pounce out upon bits of food which floated by. 
How his heart had gone pitapat when he had dis- 
covered it and had quietly, oh, so quietly, dropped 


26 


A SON OF THE CITY 


his baited hook into the clear, spring water. Then 
had come a swift-darting something up stream, a 
jerk at his line to set his pulses throbbing, a wild 
scurry for freedom and — 

'' John ! ” Miss Brown’s voice brought him rudely 
back to present day surroundings. He rose uncer- 
tainly, dimly conscious that his name had been 
called. 

''Yes, ’m,” he stammered. 

"What was I telling the class just now?” 

He strove to collect his scattered faculties. Then 
his glance, roaming the room, caught at the newly 
written problems on the blackboa^-d. He ventured 
an uncertain smile. 

"You — w-was telling — ” he began. 

" 'Were,’ John.” 

"Yes, ’m,” nervously. "Were telling the class 
to be sure and write plain, and not to use pen and 
ink if we couldn’t get along without blots and — and 
— ” What else did Miss Brown usually say to the 
class on such an occasion? 

Over in the far corner of the room, Sid DuPree 
snickered maliciously. The boy two seats ahead of 
him turned with an exultant grin on his freckled 
face. Several little girls seemed on the verge of 
foolish, discipline-dispelling giggles, and he felt that 
something had gone wrong. Teacher, herself, ended 
the suspense. 

"Very good, John. Your inventive faculties do 


IN WHICH HE GOES TO SCHOOL 


27 


you credit. But it happens that as yet, I haven't 
said anything.” 

The class broke into uproarious laughter while 
he stood in the aisle, to all appearances, a submis- 
sive, conscience-stricken little mortal. Inwardly he 
seethed with anger. What right had Miss Brown 
to trick a fellow that way? It was mean, it was 
cowardly, worse than stealing. 

^‘Now, John,” she continued, looking sternly 
down from the raised platform, “I spoke just six 
times to you last week. Finally you promised me 
that you would pay strict attention. What have 
you to say for yourself ? ” 

He shot her a half-frightened glance and found 
her face seemingly stern and remorseless. He had 
been tempted to explain how the great out-of-doors 
called to him with an insistence which was irresisti- 
ble, but shucks, she wouldn’t understand. How was 
he to know that under the surface of it all, she sym- 
pathized with the culprit daydreamer exceedingly? 
So he hung his head in silence. 

There was a knock at the door. Miss Brown dis- 
missed him with a curt nod. He sank thankfully 
into his desk as Sid DuPree sprang forward to 
admit the newcomer — a new girl and her mother. 
From the shelter of his big geography, John sur- 
veyed the couple with that calmly critical stare 
which only a ten-year-old is master of. 

The mother was nice, he decided. Fat ones 


28 


A SON OF THE CITY 


always were. It was your long, thin woman who 
made trouble. Look at old lady Meeker, who lived 
next the vacant lot on Southern Avenue, where the 
boys gathered occasionally on their way from school 
for a game of marbles or to play split-top on one of 
the loose, decayed fence planks. Never did a glassy 
go spinning from the big dirt ring through a dex- 
terous shot, or a soft, evenly grained top split 
cleanly to the spear head amid the proper shouts of 
approval than her fretful, piercing voice put an end 
to further fun. Such goings-on made her head 
ache, she averred time and again. If they didn’t 
leave immediately, she’d telephone the police station. 
Once she had said it was a ‘‘wonder some parents 
wouldn’t keep their children in their own back 
yards.” She forgot that half the gang lived in 
apartment buildings with back yards only designed 
for clothes-drying apparatus, and that the other half 
lived in houses built upon so cramped an acreage 
that the yards were no fun to play in. But grown- 
ups were in the habit of committing such oversights 
— especially the skinny, cranky ones. 

As for the little girl — ah! she was good to look 
upon. 

Her chestnut hair hung in curly ringlets below 
her shoulders, almost to the waist of her little white 
frock. Her face held a slight pallor which was 
strangely fascinating to the sun-tanned urchin, and 
her eyes were a deep, rich brown. As the conver- 


IN WHICH HE GOES TO SCHOOL 


29 


sation ended between teacher and parent, she left 
the platform and walked to the front seat assigned 
her in a timid, shrinking way which stamped her 
as just the sort of a girl the fellows would make 
miserable on the slightest provocation. John’s face 
set in an expression of heroic determination until 
he looked as if he’d swallowed a dose of castor oil! 



He’d like to catch Sid DuPree dancing around her 
in maddening circles, some afternoon, while she 
shrank piteously from each cry of “ ’Fraid cat ! 
’Fraid cat I ” Or that bully might throw pieces of 
chalk at her or pelt her with snowballs in the winter 
time until she broke into incoherent sobs. Then 
he, John Fletcher, would show that Sid where he 
got off at. He’d punch his face in, he would I 

The school room door closed upon the mother’s 
broad back, and the hum of excitement at the de- 
parture subsided into the normal undercurrent of 


30 


A SON OF THE CITY 


whispering between the pupils. Pencils scratched 
laboriously over rough manila pads as their owners 
copied the questions from the board. The boy two 
seats ahead of John took a wad of chewing gum 
from his mouth and stuck it on the underside of his 
desk. Someone over on Sid DuPree’s side of the 
room dropped a book to the floor with a bang. 

Then Miss Brown shoved back the test papers 
she had been correcting and glanced at the clock. 

“ Clear the desks,” she ordered sharply. Class 
prepare for physical culture.” 

They obeyed with alacrity, for the drills were ever 
a relief from the enforced inactivity of restless lit- 
tle bodies. Moreover, they were vastly more enjoy- 
able than mathematical perplexities or troublesome 
state and river boundaries. 

“Rise on toes, inhale deeply, and exhale ver-y 
slowly ! ” came the crisp command after the children 
had stumbled to their feet in the aisle. “ One, two, 
three, four; one, two, three, four.” 

Heated little faces grew even more flushed as the 
minute hand of the big wall clock showed the pass- 
ing of five flying minutes. Next came, “Thrust 
forward, upwards, and from your sides,” “bend 
trunks,” to all points of the compass, “lunge to the 
right and left, and thrust forward,” and a baker’s 
dozen of other exercises designed to offset the weak- 
ening influences of cramped city environments and 
impure air. 


IN WHICH HE GOES TO SCHOOL 


31 


In conclusion, the class made a quarter-turn to 
the right and as they thus stood in parallel rows, 
took hold of each other’s hands. At teacher’s com- 
mand, they swung their arms back and forth vigor- 
ously to an accompaniment of the inevitable “one- 
two, one-two.” 

John’s was a back seat, thanks to skillful ma- 
neuvering on the opening day of school, and flaxen- 
haired Olga occupied the desk ahead. A day earlier 
he had counted himself fortunate in having her for 
a neighbor, for she was clever at studies which re- 
quired plodding perseverance, and not at all bashful 
about helping a fellow when teacher pounced on 
him with a catch question. 

Now he loathed her slow, insipid smile as his left 
hand released her plump right fingers at the end of 
the exercise. If she were only the new little girl! 

Then he noticed, as a prosaic business man will 
notice suddenly, that a skyscraper which he has 
passed daily for months is out of line with its neigh- 
bor, that the seat behind the new little girl was 
unoccupied and that she stood alone in the aisle dur- 
ing exercises. Would that he had possession of it ! 

To sit next her, to be able to exchange the trivial, 
yet important, little confidences in which fourth- 
graders indulge when teacher’s back is turned, or 
to win her quick, flashing smile as a reward for 
sharpening her pencil or for judicious prompting 
during a spelling lesson ! 


32 


A SON OF THE CITY 


To achieve these things, he would be willing even 
to relinquish the powers which he held by virtue of 
his aisle end seat. And to allow voluntarily some 
other pupil to fill the inkwells, distribute pencils, 
scratch pads, and drawing paper at their appointed 
intervals, and to indulge in a hundred and one other 
little acts of monitorship is no slight sacrifice for a 
boy to make. 

The geography lesson began. With the disre- 
garded map of Africa in front of him as a blind, he 
fell to comparing the new girl with the other 
maidens of his acquaintance. 

Take poor, inoffensive Olga for example. Her 
placid being seemed clumsy and her movements 
bovine as he pictured again the dainty grace of that 
new arrival as she stepped down from the teacher’s 
platform ; or Irish-eyed, boisterous, fun-loving Mar- 
garet! John had regarded her with a great deal 
of favor during the past two weeks, for she was a 
jolly little sprite with a mother who, thanks to the 
neighborhood’s laundry patronage, contrived to 
clothe her daughter in a constantly varying and 
seldom-fitting assortment of dresses. Now echoes 
of her noisy laughter returned to grate upon his 
memory. The new little girl wouldn’t laugh like 
that. Not she I No one with so sweet a smile had 
need of impudent grins. And what a contrast be- 
tween Margaret’s untidy mop and those long, silken 
curls which so fascinated him. 


IN WHICH HE GOES TO SCHOOL 


33 


Yes, the boy decided that here was the being who 
was to be his girl for the ensuing year — to be wor- 
shipped from afar in all probability, but to be, 
nevertheless, his girl. So he drove ruthlessly from 
his heart all memories of a certain gray-eyed Har- 
riette, his third-grade charmer, and erected a purely 
tentative shrine to the new divinity. As yet he was 
not quite certain of his feelings — and there might 
be a later addition to the room ! 

In the meantime, there was the vacant seat. 
Temporary idol or not, he longed for possession 
of it, but he knew that although he moved heaven 
and earth to support a direct request for transfer. 
Miss Brown would never assign it to him. Many a 
past bitter experience had shown the most harmless 
desires to mask deep-laid juvenile plots, and she 
was singularly wary and distrustful. A way must 
be found to trick her into giving him the occupancy. 

He ate his meat and potatoes very quietly and 
thoughtfully that noon, a procedure so contrary to 
his usual actions that his mother asked him if he 
felt well. He nodded abstractedly, went upstairs 
to the big, sunny sewing room, searched the family 
needlecase for a long stiff darning needle and 
extracted several rubber bands from the red card- 
board box on the library table. Then he sauntered 
off to wait in the school yard for assembly bell, with 
the air of a military strategist who has planned a 
well-laid campaign and is sanguine of success. 


34 


A SON OF THE CITY 


The tramp of juvenile feet up the broad, school 
stairways grew steadily less until silence reigned 
in the big, empty corridors. Miss Brown sat down 
at her desk, drew out the black-covered record book 
from the right-hand drawer, and gave a few reas- 
suring pats to her dark, orderly hair. Scurrying 
footsteps pounded up to the cloak room entrance. 
A moment later, Thomas Jackson, still panting and 
breathless, stumbled into his seat and mopped the 
beads of perspiration from his dark-skinned fore- 
head with his coatsleeve. Then the tardy bell rang 
and Miss Brown began roll call. 

“ Anna Boguslawsky,” came her clear, even tones 
as the “ B ’’ names were reached. Hardly had 
Anna’s timid Here ” reached her ears than a series 
of subdued duckings came from some small boy’s 
throat. She rapped for order and went on. 

“ Edna Bowman.” 

“ Clu-wawk, clu-wawk,” repeated the offender. 
Miss Brown laid her book down with a snap and 
glared at the class, which hesitated between ill-sup- 
pressed amusement and fear of teacher’s wrath. 
She waited for one long, dragging moment and 
spoke crisply: 

‘‘Children, you are no longer third-graders. Try 
to act as really grown-up boys and girls ought 
to.” 

“ Clu-wawk, clu-wawk,” came the maddening 
repetition. She sprang to her feet. 


IN WHICH HE GOES TO SCHOOL 


35 


“That will be quite enough/^ she snapped. “If 
that boy makes that noise again he will be sent to the 
office and suspended for two weeks.” During the 
awed silence which followed, she seated herself and 
took up the black-covered book with impressive 
deliberation. All went well until the “H’s” were 
reached. 

“ Albert Harrison,” she called, “ Albert ! ” 



As Miss Brown’s eyes sought the record book 
again, an unseen something whizzed through the air. 
Thomas Jackson jumped to his feet and rubbed a 
chocolate ear belligerently. 

“ Who shot that rubber band ? I’ll fix him. Who 
done it? He’s afraid to let me know,” 


36 


A SON OF THE CITY 


Miss Brown stepped down from the teacher’s 
platform with an angry swish of her skirts, and 
took up a position half-way down the aisle where 
she had a better view of the class. John studied her 
carefully. The usually smiling lips were set in a 
thin, nervous line, and the hand which held the 
record book trembled ever so slightly. In an oppo- 
site corner of the room, two little girls giggled hys- 
terically. The ring of pupils around him, true to 
the child’s creed of no talebearing, glanced at school 
books or lesson papers with preternaturally grave 
faces. Discipline had been so badly broken that the 
class was at the stage where a dropped piece of 
chalk or a sneeze will provoke an outburst of 
laughter. 

John drew the needle from his coat lapel and 
wedged it carefully in the joint between his 
desk and the back of Olga’s seat. A glance at 
Miss Brown found her watching Billy Silvey 
closely in the belief that he was the miscreant. 
The time for his crowning bit of persecution had 
arrived. 

Suddenly a nerve-wracking, ear-piercing vibra- 
tion filled the room. Miss Brown’s face went white 
with rage. John caught the tip of the needle with 
his fingernail and bent it back again. 

‘‘ T-a-a-ang.” The class gasped at the sheer 
audacity of the deed. A ray of reflected light 
caught the teacher’s eye, and she pounced upon the 


IN WHICH HE GOES TO SCHOOL 


37 


boy before he could remove the incriminating bit 
of steel. 

“John Fletcher,” she screamed, as she stood be- 
side him. “ So it’s you Avho have been causing all 
this trouble ! ” 

He admitted as much. Sober second thought 
would have counseled Miss Brown to make good 
her threat of a visit to the principal’s office and 
consequent suspension, but an outraged sense of 
personal grievance clamored for redress. She 
gained control of herself with perceptible effort. 

“ Take out your books,” she ordered. 

He assembled his belongings on the top of his 
desk — geography, reader, arithmetic, composition 
book, and speller — all too new to be as yet ink- 
scarred — a manila scratch pad, a ruled block of 
ink paper with a cover crudely illustrated during his 
many bored moments, and a sundry assortment of 
teeth-marked pencils and pens, and stood, a smiling, 
incorrigible offender, in the aisle, awaiting further 
orders. 

Miss Brown found that smile peculiarly irritat- 
ing. “The first thing to happen to you,” she told 
him sternly, “ is that you’ll have to stay after school 
an hour for the rest of the week. As for your back 
seat, I let you keep it only on promise of good be- 
havior, and this is the way you’ve acted.” 

The maddening grin reappeared. That seat be- 
hind the new little girl was the only vacant one in 


38 


A SON OF THE CITY 


the room located at all near Miss Brown’s desk. 
The prize was all but in his possession. She was 
going to — she had to — 

‘"And,” went on the cold, inexorable voice, ‘‘as 
Louise is such a well-behaved little girl, I’m going 
to let her exchange with you. Louise, will you take 
out your books ? ” 

He drew one piteous, gasping breath. Every 
vestige of sunlight seemed to leave the room. 
Slowly he fumbled among his belongings as he gath- 
ered them into his arms and, half-way up the aisle, 
stood aside to let his divinity pass. Longingly his 
glance took in every detail of the silken curls, the 
curving lashes which half hid the brown eyes the 
rosy, petulant lips, and the unmistakably snub nose. 
Then he walked uncertainly to the seat which she 
had just vacated. 

A little later. Miss Brown looked up from a stack 
of composition papers which had been collected by 
the monitors, and found John’s lower lip a-quiver. 
She was greatly puzzled, for boys did not usually 
take detentions after school so much to heart. But 
fifteen minutes before school ended for the day, she 
knew that his troubles had vanished, for he was 
gazing out of the window with such vacant earnest- 
ness that she felt called upon to reprove him again 
for daydreaming. 

He eluded the watchful eye of authority as the 
exit bell rang, and filed down stairs with the long 


IN WHICH HE GOES TO SCHOOL 


39 


line of pupils. Sid DuPree dashed past him as he 
stood in the school yard, with a cry of ‘‘Just wait 
until teacher fixes you for ducking.” A friend 
called an enthusiastic invitation to play tops on the 
smooth street macadam. Silvey stopped to convey 
the important information that the “Tigers” were 
to hold their first fall football practice in the big 
lot that afternoon. John promised his appearance 
— later. Other and more important matters would 
claim his attention for the next half-hour. 

At last the new little girl came down the long 
walk leading from the school yard to the street and 
hippity-hopped over the cement sidewalk towards 
home, with school books swinging carelessly to and 
fro in her strap. 

He started after her with the unnecessary and 
therefore fascinating stealth of an Indian, for he 
meant to find out where she lived. As she left the 
cross street where the telephone exchange stood, 
her gait slackened to a walk — still eastward. Past 
the little block of stores which housed a struggling 
delicatessen, an ambitious, gilt-signed “elite” tail- 
oring establishment, and a dingy, dirty-windowed 
little jewelry shop, across Southern Avenue where 
gray-eyed Harriette, that divinity of the preceding 
year, lived, and still no sign of a change in direction. 

Once she turned and looked backward. John 
fled, panic-stricken, to the shelter of the nearest 
store entrance ; for you might be in love with a girl. 


40 


A SON OF THE CITY 


you might be obsessed with a desire to find her 
residence that you might pass it occasionally and 
wonder in a dreamy sort of a way what she might 
be doing, but the girl herself must never know it. 
That would be contrary to every precept of the 
schoolboy code of ethics. 

At last she turned a corner — his home corner — 
where the drug store stood, and broke again into a 
hippity-hop down the shady, linden-lined street. 
With heart gloriously a-thump, he watched the door 
of the big apartment building at the end of the street 
close upon the little white-clad form, and he knew 
that the van load of furniture which had been car- 
ried in on the Friday preceding belonged to her par- 
ents. So he retraced his steps across the street with 
a dolorously cheerful whistle on his lips. 

Over the railroad tracks he went as usual to the 
big, weed-grown, rubbish-littered field north of the 
dairy farm, which served as baseball grounds, ath- 
letic field, and football gridiron, according to the 
season. There he found a baker’s dozen of boys 
of his own age, who greeted him joyously. 

Sid DuPree’s gone to get his football,” Silvey 
explained. “ We’ll be practicing in a minute.” 

They were a ragged lot. Silvey boasted of a 
grimy, oft-patched pair of football pants, which 
were a relic of his brother’s high-school career; 
Albert, the older Harrison boy, who did not seem 
very ill in spite of the physician’s dismissal, owned 


IN WHICH HE GOES TO SCHOOL 


41 


half of an old football casing, which had been 
padded to make a head guard, and there was a scat- 
tering of sweaters among them. Sid DuPree, 
thanks to parental affluence, was the only boy who 
laid claim to a complete uniform, and presently 
he sauntered over the tracks in shining headgear, 
heavy jersey, padded knee trousers, and legs en- 
cased in shin-guards far too large for him. A new 
collegiate ball was tucked securely under one arm. 

‘‘ Here she is, fellows/’ he called, as he clambered 
into the field and sent the pigskin spinning errat- 
ically through the air. Isn’t she a peach ? ” 

Last year, their combats had been fought with 
a light, cheap, dollar toy, but here was one in their 
midst of the same weight, brand, and size as that 
which the big university team used, and which cost 
as much as, or more, than a new suit of clothes, 
according to the individual. They gathered around 
it, poking at the staunchly sewn seams and thump- 
ing the stony sides with a feeling akin to reverence. 

Presently Silvey produced a frayed, dog-eared 
treatise How to Play Football, which had sur- 
vived two years of thumbing and tugging and ly- 
ing on the attic floor between seasons, and proceeded 
to lay down the fundamental laws to the neophytes 
in the great American sport. Positions were tenta- 
tively assigned, and the squad raced over weeds and 
stones in an effort to master the rudimentary plays, 
while Silvey strutted and blustered and administered 


42 


A SON OF THE CITY 


corrective lectures in a manner that was a ludicrous 
imitation of a certain high-school coach. Let John 
excel at baseball if he would; he was the master of 
the hour now, and he marched the boys back and 
forth until they panted and sweated and finally 
broke into vociferous protest. Thus the Tigers,” 
whose name that season was to spell certain defeat 



to similar ten-year-old teams, concluded their first 
football practice. 

John dropped behind to talk to the elder Harrison 
boy as the team sauntered noisily homeward. He 
wanted to learn the details of the accommodating 
illness. Albert chuckled. 

“Nothing the matter. Only the school doctor 
thought there was.” 

That official was a recent acquisition to the school 
personnel whose duties, according to the school 
board’s orders, were to “ Make daily visits, morn- 


IN WHICH HE GOES TO SCHOOL 


43 


ing and afternoon, to examine all cases of suspected 
illness, and prescribe, if poverty makes it necessary, 
that epidemics be safeguarded against.” 

‘‘What do you mean?” asked John. 

“Well, my throat felt funny and I told Miss 
Brown. She sent me up to the office to see him. 
‘ Stay home a day, my boy, until we see if it gets 
worse,’ ” Albert quoted. “Was I glad ? ” 

So that was what the new school doctor did. 
Thumped you around and looked down your throat 
and prescribed a day’s holiday as a cure. He wished 
he’d been Albert. He’d a’ stayed on the pier all 
morning and hooked the big carp again. Some 
folks seemed to be born lucky, anyway. Couldn’t 
he fall sick too, not badly enough to go to bed, but 
just nicely sick as A1 was? 

He startled his parents at supper that evening by 
a sudden and seemingly morbid thirst for informa- 
tion about diseases. 

“ Mother,” he queried, between mouthfuls of 
bread and homemade marmalade, “what’s measles 
and scarlet fever and diphtheria start out like ? ” 

His father chortled with amusement. Mother, 
after the manner of women, remembered his actions 
that noon and grew anxious. 

“You’re not feeling sick, are you, dear?” 

He didn’t feel exactly well. Could she tell him 
about any of the foregoing? Perhaps he had one 
of them. 


44 


A SON OF THE CITY 


Put that marmalade right down, then. It’ll up- 
set your stomach. Here, let me look at your 
tongue ! ” 

He demurred. Jam wouldn’t hurt him. There 
was nothing really wrong, anyway. Only one of 
the boys at school had gone home with the measles 
and he was wondering what it was like. Then he 
subsided into silence. 

Late that evening, Mr. Fletcher found the library 
gas burning and discovered his son sitting beside 
the desk, his eyes glued to the portly, green-bound 
Family Doctor. Beside him on a pad were scrib- 
bled copious notes. Nor would he even hint, as his 
father ordered him to bed, what he wanted them for. 



CHAPTER III 


HE PLAYS A TRICK ON THE DOCTOR 

T N THE morning, John sneaked from the table as 
soon as the last fork full of fried potatoes had 
been devoured. When Mrs. Fletcher brought the 
breakfast plates out to the kitchen sink, she found 
him on tiptoe, with one hand fumbling among the 
spice tins and bottles in the top bureau drawer. He 
turned guiltily, and yawned to hide his embarrass- 
ment. 

“ I was looking for a piece of cinnamon to chew,” 
he explained. “ Guess Ell be going to school now.” 

His mother glanced at the alarm clock which 
ticked noisily in its place on the wall over the sink. 

“Only twenty-five minutes to nine, son. Isn’t 
it a bit early ? ” 

He explained that he had to be up at school at 
first bell. A geography notebook had been left in 
his desk, and entries must be made in it before the 
class began. He was gathering his scattered belong- 
ings together in the hall when the maternal voice 
called him back to the kitchen. 

“Yes, Mother?” with his head in the doorway. 

“Will you ever learn to shut a drawer when 
you’re through with it ? ” 


45 


46 


A SON OF THE CITY 


He shoved it back with a sulky bang. Where’s 
my hat?” 

Did you look in the front hall ? ” 

“ Tain’t on the floor by the big chair. That’s 
where I most always leave it.” 

“ How about the closet hat rack ? ” 

A moment later, a surprised shout told that the 
lost had been found. The front door slammed 
noisily and he was off to school. 

The dishes were washed and dried, the plates 
and saucers stacked on the pantry shelves, the cups 
hung neatly on the appointed hooks in the cupboard, 
and the silver put away in the sideboard drawer. 
Then Mrs. Fletcher turned her attention to the tidy- 
ing of the house. She made innumerable circles and 
criss-crosses with the carpet sweeper over the parlor 
rug, and was dusting the big rocker by the bay win- 
dow when a chance glance up the street revealed 
two small figures playing far at one end of the strip 
of macadam. Her son, without doubt, was one 
of them. No one else wore a cap tilted back at 
quite so ridiculous an angle. The other stocky fig- 
ure looked and acted like Bill Silvey. 

Why weren’t they at school? Hookey? No, for 
truants never allowed themselves within sight of 
home and easy detection. And there was a certain 
brazen righteousness about their actions. At the 
big, green house, Silvey challenged John to a game 
of tag. A lamppost nearer, they ceased the mad, 


HE PLAYS A TRICK ON THE DOCTOR 


47 


dodging chase and engaged in earnest conversation. 
A hundred yards from the Fletcher house, footsteps 
lagged to an astonishing degree and an air of lassi- 
tude overcame them that was inexplicable in view 
of recent activities. The boys mounted the front 
steps wearily. John pressed the bell as if the act 
consumed the last atom of strength in his arm. 

His mother swung back the door anxiously. 
‘‘What on earth’s the matter?” 

“ School doctor sent me home,” her son explained. 
“ Think’s I’ve got the measles.” 

“Nonsense! Let me take a look at you.” His 
eyes were reddened to an alarming degree, but there 
seemed little else the matter. 

“ He did,” John insisted. “ Told me to stay home 
today to see if they got worse. Silvey and I are 
going fishing.” 

“ Fishing I And coming down with the measles ? ” 

He protested volubly. His head felt heavy and 
kind of funny, but he didn’t think that lazying 
around on the pier would be harmful. The sunshine 
might do him good. 

“ Nonsense I ” exclaimed Mrs. Fletcher a second 
time and with increased emphasis. She turned to 
Silvey. “ You can go home. Bill. John can’t come 
out. He’s going to stay in bed until he gets better.” 

John trudged wearily up the interminable stairs 
to his little tan-Wcdled room. 

Shucks, it was just his luck! Look at A1 Harri- 


48 


A SON OF THE CITY 


son. He came home with a sore throat and was 
allowed to play football and fool around as he 
pleased, while he, John Fletcher, was ordered to 
bed because the school doctor feared measles. 

A fellow had returned from the pier with a string 
of perch a yard long dangling from his pole. 
‘‘ Fishing good ? Say, kid, this ain’t nothing to what 
some of ’em have caught!” And he was con- 
demned to a day’s imprisonment while they were 
biting that way. It was a shame, tyranny, oppres- 
sion worse than the old slaves labored under in 
Uncle Tom's Cabin. He’d run away from home, he 
would. Perhaps his uncle would give him a job on 
the Michigan farm if he worked his way up there. 
Or else he could commit suicide. There was the long, 
shiny, carving knife in the kitchen table drawer. 
He’d just bet his mother would be sorry if he used it. 

Instead, he threw his clothes sulkily over the back 
of the wicker chair and, after some deliberation, 
drew a well-thumbed, red-covered book from his 
library shelves. Sherlock Holmes was a far better 
panacea for his troubles than the big carving knife. 

He had read and reread the tale until the epi- 
sodes were known almost by heart, but still The 
Sign of the Four held powerful sway over his imag- 
ination. Thaddeus Sholto lived again to tell his 
nervous, halting tale to the astute Baker Street de- 
tective. Tobey took the two eager sleuths through 
the episode of the trail which led to the creosote 


HE PLAYS A TRICK ON THE DOCTOR 


49 


barrels. Holmes appeared and reappeared on his 
fruitless expeditions as the boy’s eyes narrowed 
with excitement, and his figure straightened and his 
breathing quickened as he followed the police boat 
in the thrilling pursuit of Tonga and Jonathan 
Small on the tortuous, traffic-blocked Thames. 

He found himself reading the love passages with 
a sudden and sympathetic insight. No longer did 
he feel tempted to skim those pages hastily that 
he might resume the thread of the main and more 
engrossing plot. Didn’t Louise live almost across 
the street from him? Wasn’t his interest in her 
explained by that paragraph, “A wondrous and 
subtle thing is love, for here were we two who had 
never seen each other before that day — ” 

“John ! ” His mother stood in the doorway, stern 
disapproval in her gaze. He looked at her blankly. 

“ Put up that book this minute. Don’t you know 
that reading is the worst thing possible for in- 
flamed eyes?” 

The treasure was surrendered regretfully. His 
mother replaced it on the shelf. 

“Where’s the key to your bookcase?” He 
shrugged his shoulders. “ It doesn’t matter. Mine 
fits your door, anyway.” 

The squeak of the lock sounded the death knell 
to the one course of amusement that had lain open 
to him. His mother pulled down the window shades 
and stooped over in the darkened room to kiss him. 


50 


A SON OF THE CITY 


Sleep a little, son,” she counseled. Mother 
wants you to feel better in the morning.” 

He undressed and threw himself into bed angrily. 
Even books were denied him. What was the fun 
in being sick, anyway, if a fellow’s mother insisted 
on taking that sickness seriously. Why wasn’t she 
as easy going as Mrs. DuPree who allowed that 
privileged youngster to stay up as late as he wanted 
and to indulge in other liberties not usually granted 
to a boy of ten? 

Sid and the class must be finishing arithmetic 
now. He wished he were there. Anything — even 
school — was better than staying in bed in a dark- 
ened room. Did Louise enjoy his back seat? Had 
she found the big wad of chewing gum he’d left 
on the bottom of the desk? Was Silvey having 
the same unfortunate time as he? 

The room was warm and close in spite of the 
open east exposure. He yawned dismally. A fly 
lighted on his nose. He brushed it away in drowsy 
irritation. In a moment his eyes closed. 

He was awakened by the buzz of the egg beater 
in a china bowl in the kitchen below him. Must be 
’most dinner time. He felt hungry enough. What 
was his mother cooking? A fragrant hissing from 
the hot pan hinted of an omelet. Just let him sink 
his teeth into one. Wouldn’t be long before he 
was ready for another. 

He roused himself and went into the hall. 


HE PLAYS A TRICK ON THE DOCTOR 


51 


“ Moth-a-ar/' he called down the stairway. 

‘‘Yes, John?” 

“Tm hu-u-ngry.” 

“ Lie still, ril be up with your dinner in a few 
moments.” 

He hoped it would be something good. Beefsteak 
and mashed potatoes and peas would be about right. 
Omelet would do, if there were enough. He could 
devour the house, he felt so ravenous. 

Shortly his mother appeared with the big brown 
tray, drew up a straight-backed chair to the bed, 
and lowered the feast to it before his expectant eyes. 

“ Milk toast ! ” disgustedly. 

“Why not?” 



52 


A SON OF THE CITY 


'‘That isn’t enough for a fellow. Aren’t there 
any potatoes or meat ? ” 

“ They’d make your temperature rise,” Mrs. 
Fletcher explained gently. " Perhaps, though, you 
can have some tomorrow, if you’re better.” 

He waited until she left the room and attacked 
the mushy stuff hungrily. Everything is grist 
which comes to a small boy’s digestive mill, anyway, 
and the food wasn’t really distasteful. Then he lay 
back and, for the first time in his active life, realized 
what a refined torture complete and enforced idle- 
ness can be. 

The shadows played incessantly on the brown 
wallpaper as the window curtains swung back and 
forth with the air currents and lightened and 
plunged his prison into oppressive twilight alter- 
nately. A fly made a complete toilette on the bed 
cover before his interested eyes, now brushing the 
gauzy wings, now twisting its head this way and 
that way, as if indulging in a form of calisthenics. 
He stretched forth a cautious hand to capture the 
insect, only to watch it buzz merrily away before 
his arm was in striking distance. 

A. suburban train puffed noisily past and slowed 
down at the adjacent station. Only twenty minutes 
elapsed ! And an afternoon of this awful monotony 
faced him. 

He blinked idly at the ceiling. This was Thurs- 
day. Played properly, his malady should be suffi- 


HE PLAYS A TRICK ON THE DOCTOR 


53 


cient to keep him out of school on the morrow; but 
was the game worth the candle? 

John dressed himself hurriedly and bounced 
down the stairs. Mrs. Fletcher was in the parlor, 
glancing for a brief moment at a newly arrived 
magazine. He presented himself sheepishly. 

No, he didn’t want to stay in bed. He felt all 
right — honest ! 

She examined the invalid carefully. The inflam- 
mation had left his eyes and they were now as clear 
as her own. His skin felt cool to the touch, without 
a trace of fever, and his tongue was an even, healthy 
pink. 

“There doesn’t seem much the matter with you 
now,” she admitted. “It won’t hurt you to stay 
up if you don’t play too hard. There are lots and 
lots of things to do to help me.” 

First, the potatoes were to be washed for tomor- 
row’s dinner. He filled the dishpan full of water, 
dumped the sand-laden tubers in, and attacked them 
with a brush in vigorous relief at the change from 
deadening inactivity. Next, there were a hundred 
and one little errands to do about the house, for his 
mother began sewing on his negligee blouses, and 
the button-hole scissors, the missing “6o” thread, 
and other mislaid implements must be found for 
her. Lastly, he announced that it might be well 
to go up to school and get the lessons for tomorrow. 

“ Then I won’t miss anything,” he explained. 


54 


A SON OF THE CITY 


Mrs. Fletcher nodded assent. “But come right 
back. I don’t want you to be sick again.” 

The afternoon passed without sign of John. At 
supper time, he approached the house warily. His 
face was flushed, his school clothes begrimed and 
rumpled, and a bruise on his right shin forced a per- 
ceptible limp as he walked. He had been practicing 
with the “ Tigers,” and the scrimmage had been most 
exciting. Silvey — who had not been put to bed — 
had bumped into Red Brown in a manner which the 
latter regarded as unnecessarily rough. There had 
been a fight between the two, while the other aspi- 
rants for positions on the team stood around and 
yelled “ Fi-i-i-ight ” at the top of their lungs. 

Yes, everyone seemed to be inside the Fletcher 
house. The outlook was reasonably safe. He tip- 
toed up on the porch and stretched out on the swing- 
ing lounge. There his mother found him feigning 
a deep and overwhelming sleep. 

“John!” 

Sleeping boys never wakened at the first sum- 
mons. That wasn’t natural. So he waited until a 
maternal hand shook him vigorously. 

“Yes, Mother?” With a doleful yawn. 

“Is this the way you come straight home from 
school?” 

He protested. There were some lessons to get 
from Miss Brown after dismissal and that had de- 
layed him. “ And I’ve been here ever so long.” 


HE PLAYS A TRICK ON THE DOCTOR 


55 


'‘Nonsense!” she ejaculated. “Just look at the 
state of your clothing. You’ve been playing foot- 
ball. Come into the house this instant!” 

He obeyed meekly. The period of invalidism 
was over. 

But to the harassed school doctor, it seemed on 
the following morning that John Fletcher’s case 
was but the beginning of a long and startling out- 
break of illness in the school. 

Hardly had Miss Brown finished roll call before 
dark-haired Perry Alford, her brightest and most 
guileless scholar, waved his hand excitedly to attract 
attention. His eyes hurt terribly as teacher could 
• see. Wouldn’t it be well for him to go to the school 
physician? Miss Brown thought that it would. 

Room Ten’s door closed upon the prospective in- 
valid. But a few moments passed before tow- 
headed, lethargic Olaf Johnson voiced his complaint. 

“ Please, ma’m, my throat, it feels funny here.” 
He placed a pudgy hand on each side of his jaw. 
“And this morning when I get up, my head feels 
hot.” 

He, too, was sent to see the school physician. 

“Does your nose run?” asked the man of medi- 
cines when Perry finished the catalog of his ail- 
ments. 

Perry sneezed and admitted that it did. 

“Anything else wrong with you?” 

“Not exactly, sir;” then with a sudden glibness, 


56 


A SON OF THE CITY 


‘‘but I don’t feel like doing much. Only loafing 
around — and my head feels queer.” 

“ Home,” ordered the doctor, emphatically. “ At 
least four days. Tell your mother you’ve a first- 
class case of measles developing.” 

As Perry made his exit, Olaf appeared. 

“Another?” exclaimed the physician, as he ex- 
changed a glance with the gray-haired principal. 
“Well, what’s the matter with you?” 

Olaf elaborated upon the symptoms which he had 
described to Miss Brown. The young medic was 
puzzled. 

“There are aspects which are not quite consist- 
ent,” he said to the principal, “but the soreness 
suggests mumps. Shall we send him home ? ” 

“ As you think best,” nodded Mr. Downer. Olaf 
went the way of the measles-smitten Perry. 

The doctor was picking up his hat and medicine 
case to leave when the office door opened again. 
Two more boys appeared. 

“ Good heavens ! ” said he, as he sat down heavily. 
“Is it an epidemic?” 

The principal shrugged his shoulders in bewilder- 
ment. 

“More mumps.” He beckoned to the larger of 
the two boys. “Now it’s your turn.” 

The older urchin was sturdily built, with a deep 
coat of tan on his face that no city sun had ever 
bred. 


HE PLAYS A TRICK ON THE DOCTOR 


57 


‘‘ What’s wrong with you ? ” 

The situation was beginning to pall. The posi- 
tion of school doctor, newly created by the Board 
of Education at the close of the spring term, car- 
ried no munificent salary. The young practitioner 
had grasped at the opening because the routine work 
offered golden opportunities for acquiring a clientele 
among the parents of the various pupils. Now, al- 
most at the outset, a whole morning had been con- 
sumed, and there was promise of a great deal more 
work in the future. 

There didn’t seem to be anything seriously the 
matter with the boy. He felt bruised all over, that 
was all. 

“ Where does it hurt the most ? ” 

‘‘ Around my back.” 

‘‘ Here ? ” The doctor placed his hands firmly on 
either side of the patient’s spine. 

“ O-o-oh, don’t ! ” he wailed. 

The physician straightened up and regarded the 
pupil gravely. 

‘‘ Anything else ? ” 

‘‘My stomach feels queer and it hurts like the 
dickens every once in a while. I lost my breakfast, 
this morning, too!” 

A tense note crept into the inquisitor’s voice. 
“ Have you ever been vaccinated ? ” 

“No sir. We just moved to the city this sum- 


mer. 


58 


A SON OF THE CITY 


Smallpox ! ’’ The principal turned a little pale. 

“Are you sure?’’ he asked. 

“The pain in the back and the vomiting are al- 
most certain indications.” He turned to the boy. 
“Tell your mother to notify the health department 
the very minute you get home. Your house must 
be quarantined immediately.” 

Much more was said regarding precautions, and 
measures, and medicines, to which the patient list- 
ened stolidly. A disinterested observer might have 
said that he was waiting solely for the order to leave 
school. 

As the door closed, the authorities exchanged 
worried glances. 

“The health record of the school has always 
been remarkably good,” began the principal. 

“But it’s an epidemic,” cut in the worried 
physician. “And what an epidemic. Four cases 
this morning, and two yesterday, ranging all the 
way from mumps to smallpox. Downer, the school 
ought to be closed and thoroughly disinfected.” 

“Doesn’t it strike you as peculiar that the cases 
are confined to one room. Ten, and that boys are 
the only victims?” 

“ Did you ever hear of a germ carrier. A person 
who, through some source of exposure, carries 
germs here and there on his or her clothes, and is 
perfectly immune to them. That’s what you must 
have in that room. As for your last question. 


HE PLAYS A TRICK ON THE DOCTOR 


59 


merely a coincidence. The boys happened to be the 
most susceptible to exposure, that’s all. 

A bell clanged noisily. Mr. Downer stood up and 
looked thoughtfully from his window upon the or- 
derly lines of pupils that no sooner passed from the 
school threshold than they became a howling, shout- 
ing mass of seeming infant maniacs. 

“ Seems to me,” he said, ‘‘ Miss Brown was tell- 
ing about a girl named Margaret, Margaret Moran, 
whose mother took in washing for a living. Spoke 
of it as a great joke. Said the girl wore a new 
dress every day, sometimes too long, sometimes too 
short, but never a fit. An ingenious way to reduce 
one item of the present high cost of living. She 
might be the one,” he admitted. 

‘‘Always the way,” his companion said sharply. 
“There are more epidemics and near epidemics 
started by these itinerant washerwomen than the 
medical journals can keep track of. They ought 
to be regulated.” 

“At any rate,” said the principal, “I think it 
would be wise to question her a little before steps 
are taken to close the school. She may be able to 
shed some light on matters.” 

“As you wish.” The physician shrugged his 
shoulders. “I’ll be back, this afternoon, to help 
with the inquisition.” 

Next to children, the gray-haired man loved flow- 
ers, and he had planted the barren strip of land 


60 


A SON OF THE CITY 


adjoining the fence separating the school yard from 
the alley with cannas and elephant’s ears. He was 
puttering among them, now seeking voracious para- 
sites, now examining a leaf which hinted in its faded 
coloring of fast approaching frosts, when boys’ 
voices coming from the alley, held his attention. 

“So you want a holiday?” John Fletcher was 
the speaker beyond doubt; and his case had been 
the forerunner of the epidemic. 

“Uhu.” 

“ Got your nickel ? ” 

“ Show me how, first.” 

A moment’s silence. John was examining the 
seeker after advice. 

“Just want this afternoon?” 

The boy assented. 

“ Better have the measles, then. That’s only good 
for one day, ’cause you can’t fake it much longer. 
The disease comes on too fast. Doctor’s book says 
so. Now pay attention.” 

“Yes.” 

“Just before you go to school, shake some red 
pepper into your hand and go into a small closet. 
Shut the door so’s none of the stuff can get out, and 
blow on it. Stay there until your eyes begin to 
smart. You’ll find they’re all red. That’s the first 
symptom. Now repeat v/hat I told you.” 

His pupil obeyed. 

“Let Miss Brown take a good look and she’ll 


HE PLAYS A TRICK ON THE DOCTOR 


61 


send you to the doctor right away. When you come 
into the office, give a little cough as if your throat 
hurt. Let’s hear you.” 

The urchin hacked vigorously. 

‘‘No, no, not so loud! You couldn’t do that if 
your throat hurt as much as you must pretend it 
does. Try again.” 

This time, the effort satisfied even the teacher’s 
critical ear. 

“ Then, when the doctor asks what’s the matter, 
tell him you don’t exactly know; that your head 
feels sort of queer, and you were all hot when you 
woke up this morning. He’ll say ‘ Measles ’ and or- 
der you ‘home until the case develops,’” quoting 
the physician’s words at his own dismissal. “ Now 
give me the nickel.” 

“ Shucks, is that all ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ That ain’t worth no nickel.” 

“Aren’t you going to give me that nickel?” 
threateningly. 

“That ain’t worth more’n a penny. How do I 
know whether it’ll work?” 

“ Perry Alford’s worked, and so did mine, and 
Bill Silvey’s, Olaf’s, Carl’s, and the country kid’s.” 

“ The other kids aren’t paying you no nickel.” 

“They are, too. Ask Mickey and his brother, 
and the Shepherd kids. They’re going to be sick 
this afternoon, and they’ve paid me.” 


62 


A SON OF THE CITY 


“ I can go to Olaf,” asserted the would-be dead- 
beat. “He’ll tell me what you told him, and it’ll 
only cost a penny.” 

“He’d better not! I’ll smash his face in if he 
does. Are you going to give me that nickel?^' 

“Naw, I ain’t.” 

John clenched his fists belligerently. His debtor 
raised both arms in a posture of defense. The prin- 
cipal tiptoed noiselessly around the end of the fence. 
John sparred for an opening and his opponent spied 
the approaching figure. 



John turned, only to meet the principal’s firm 
grasp on his shoulder. 


HE PLAYS A TRICK ON THE DOCTOR 


63 


“Come up to the office/’ said the quiet voice. 
“ I want to have a talk with you.” 

He led the way to the center doors, an entrance 
reserved for the use of such awe-inspiring mortals 
as the faculty, visiting school superintendents, and 
parents. Up the dingy wooden stairs, worn at 
either end by the innumerable shuffling feet which 
had passed over them, they went, and into the bleak 
little office. 

“ Sit down,” said Mr. Downer. 

John collapsed into an uncomfortable wooden 
chair and gazed about him. There were the same 
desk, the same window box, filled with geraniums 
and pansies, and the same dun wall that he had seen 
on previous visits, prompted by his various sins. 
There was only one change. Opposite him, a newly 
framed head of Washington looked down from 
the wall in cold disapproval of the culprit who, 
for once in his brief life, felt strangely small and 
subdued. 

There were no questions ; the principal had 
heard too much from his vantage point beside 
the fence. So he talked on and on and on in even, 
severe tones, of notes mailed to parents, of sus- 
pension notices, of school board action, and of 
interviews with Mr. Fletcher, until John, staring, 
motionless, at a panel in the big oak desk, felt 
his lower lip quiver. Then the gray-haired man 
desisted. 


64 


A SON OF THE CITY 


But I hope none of these measures will be neces- 
sary, John,’' he concluded. 

‘‘N-no, sir,” came the scarcely audible response. 

Had the boy looked at the kindly face, he would 
have seen that the deep set eyes were a-twinkle with 
suppressed merriment, but he was too conscience- 
stricken to do anything but slink from the office to 
the school yard. 

There he found that the news of his downfall 
had been spread among the fast increasing throng 
of boys who scampered over the pavement in break- 
neck games of tag or made tops perform miraculous 
tricks as they waited for the school bell to ring. 
Not a few jeered at him. One or two little girls 
who were passing stuck out their tongues. Even 
Sid DuPree and Silvey and the rest of the “Tigers ” 
had only derisive laughter. 

It was the first time in his life that he had been 
made to feel ridiculous and he liked it not at all. 
He felt strangely out of place and stood to one side 
of the yard, a scowl on his face, glaring at the 
throng of merrymakers. Anyway, the proceeds of 
his escapade were in his pockets; that was more 
money than any of the scoffers owned. He shook 
the coins consolingly. 

A boy darted past. “Y-a-a, Johnny will try to 
fool the doctor ! ” 

The scowl deepened, then vanished suddenly. 
“ Hey ! ” he bellowed to an astonished group near 


HE PLAYS A TRICK ON THE DOCTOR 


65 


him. “Come on, all of you, over to the school 
store.’’ 

They filed, a perplexed, noisy throng, into the 
cramped room. The proprietress gasped. John 
swaggered forward. 

“Here,” said he, with the air of a young million- 
aire throwing away twenty-dollar tips, “I want 
forty-five cents’ worth of six-for-a-cent lemon 
drops. Give each of these kids two and save the 
rest for me, if there is any rest!” 

Then he strutted out, a veritable lord of creation. 
His pockets were empty, but little he cared. The 
clamor in the school store was as sweet music to 
his ears, for it meant that his status among his play- 
fellows was restored. His bump of conceit no 
longer ached. So he knew that the victory was 
worth the price and again he felt at peace with the 
world. 


CHAPTER IV 


IN WHICH A TERRIFIC BATTLE IS WAGED 

^ I ^ HE following morning was clear and sun- 
shiny. Silvey, his trousers' pockets strangely 
distorted, sprinted down the street and halted on 
the cement walk in front of the Fletcher house. 

“ Oh, John-e-e-e ! Oh, John-e-e-e ! " 

John appeared at an upper window in answer to 
the ear-piercing call. He carried a dustrag in one 
hand, and an expression of extreme discontent was 
on his freckled face. 

‘‘ What you want ? " 

‘‘Come on out." 

“Can’t." Disgruntled pessimism rang in his 
tones. 

“Why?" 

“ Got to tidy my room and dust the bookcase and 
hang up my clothes in the closet and cut the front 
grass. Mother says so." 

“Aw-w-w, shucks! Can’t you get out of it?" 
His friend fumbled in one of his bulging pockets. 
“Look!" 

The laborer at household tasks stared with sud- 
den interest. “Ji-miny, cukes! Where’d you get 
’em?" 

C6 


A TERRIFIC BATTLE IS WAGED 


67 


“ ’Long the railroad tracks. Vines are loaded. 
Nice and ripe, too. Watch.” 

He hurled the greeny, spiny oval against the win- 
dow ledge where it burst with the peculiar “plop,” 
which only a wild cucumber of a certain stage of 
juicy plumpness can make. 

“The fellows are going to have a big fight,” 
Silvey continued — “Perry Alford and Sid and the 
Harrison kids and all the rest of the gang. Ask 
your mother can you leave the work until after- 
noon. Tease her hard/^ 

Cucumbers ripe so early? That was fine! But 
could he evade the Saturday tasks. He would 
try. 

As he descended the stairs, the elation left his 
face and his step grew heavy and lifeless. He was 
framing a plea for freedom and his manner must 
fit the occasion. Had you seen him, you might 
have thought that his best bamboo fishing pole had 
been broken, or that the key to his bookcase was in 
maternal possession as punishment for some mis- 
deed. All boys are splendid professional mourners 
anyway, and John was by no means an exception 
to the rule. 

He halted in the dingy coat closet to listen. 
Through the closed kitchen door came his mother’s 
voice uplifted in song. 

Nita, Oh, Ju-a-a-nita, 

Ala-a-s that we must part! 


68 


A SON OF THE CITY 


He sighed deeply. Bitter experience had taught 
that never was moment so unpropitious for errands 
like the present as when that cheerful dirge filled 
the air. But the thought of the waiting Silvey 
nerved him. He turned the doorknob and coughed 
hesitantly. His mother looked up from the pan 
of apples on her lap and smiled. She knew that 
lagging step and drooping mouth of old. 

“Well, John?” 

Her son fidgeted from one foot to the other. 
Beginnings were always so difficult. At last he 
blurted out : 

“Mother! Bill's outside with a lot of cucum- 
bers. Says the fellows are going to have a sham 
battle and wants me to come along.” 

“ Did you put your shoes away in the bag on the 
door and hang up your good knickerbockers and 
coat ? ” 

His eyes began to fill. “ N-no,” he admitted. 

“Well, you’ve been upstairs nearly an hour,” 
Mrs. Fletcher went on inexorably. “ I suppose your 
room is tidied and dusted anyway.” 

“Not quite,” reluctantly. If the truth were told, 
a new book from the public library had caught his 
eye as he was about to start, and time had flown 
as a consequence. 

His mother shook her head. “ That’s your regu- 
lar Saturday work, John. It has to be finished be- 
fore you can go out. You know that. And there’s 


A TERRIFIC BATTLE IS WAGED 


69 


the lawn to be cut, and the porch to be hosed. You 
skipped them last week.” 

“I’ll do them this afternoon. Honest, I will.” 
His lower lip began to tremble. Mrs. Fletcher 
struggled to hide a smile. 

“Tell Bill you’ll be out later.” She disregarded 
his offer of compromise. “Now run along, son. 
Teasing only wastes time. You could be half fin- 
ished if you’d only worked.” 

There was no mistaking the tone. It meant busi- 
ness in spite of the aggressive cheerfulness. He 
turned moodily and stamped out of the room. As 
the door closed, he found an outlet for the disap- 
pointment in half mumbled ejaculations. 

“ Mean old thing. Never lets a fellow do what 
he wants. Just as well have let ’em go until after- 
noon. What’s the use of tidying a room, anyway? 
Always gets dirty again.” 

Half-way up the carpeted stairs, he tripped in 
his blind anger and bruised his knee. The pain was 
sufficient to make the tears — the easy flowing tears 
which had longed for an outlet from the start of the 
interview — stream from his eyes. 

In a trice, he turned, threw back the door, and 
fled to the haven of his mother’s lap. His arms 
sought clumsily to encircle her neck. She dropped 
the pan of apples on the floor, and gathered him, 
a sobbing little bundle, into her comforting arms. 

“What is it, son?” 


70 


A SON OF THE CITY 


“My knee.” One uncertain hand indicated the 
injured spot. 

“Ah, son, son,” she laughed softly with just a 
hint of a catch in her voice as she rubbed the injury 
gently, “is it only when you want something that 
you love me like this ? ” 

He shook his head and snuggled closer in vehe- 
ment protest. They rocked to and fro for some 
moments. Gradually the sobbing ceased and he lay 
blissfully motionless until she looked down at him. 
Then he said sheepishly, 

“If I do the lawn now, can I leave the porch and 
my room until afternoon?” 

Mrs. Fletcher gave her son an amused shake. 
He sensed hope for his cause and began to weep 
anew. 

“ Please!” 

His mother’s smile broadened. “You little hum- 
bug,” she said softly. 

John wanted to smile, too. She always said that 
when she was relenting. 

“ Can I ? ” eagerly. 

“Well, make a good job of the front lawn and 
I’ll see.” 

He struggled to his feet and was on the front 
porch before the kitchen door had slammed be- 
hind him. Half-dried tears still streaked his face, 
but a smile shone through them like the sun after 
a summer shower. 


A TERRIFIC BATTLE IS WAGED 


71 


“ Got to cut the front lawn,” he said exuberantly, 
'‘but that won’t talce long. She says I can leave 
the rest of it.” 

Silvey’s face clouded. “They’re waiting for us 
in the big lot.” 

“Won’t take long if you help me,” John hinted 
gently. “You run the mower and I’ll follow with 
the rake.” 

He darted back into the house and down into the 
dark, badly ventilated basement. Silvey sauntered 
around to the side, just in time to hear him strug- 
gling with the rusty door bolt. 

They dragged the implements up the area steps 
and set to work grimly. No time to be spent 
in making erratic circles or decorative designs 
in the long grass now. Up and down, up and 
down, the mower whirred with methodical thor- 
oughness until the little plot had been cut after a 
fashion. 

“Guess that’ll do,” said John as they bumped 
the tools down the rickety wooden steps and left 
them lying in the doorway. 

“Going to tell her you’re finished?” 

Mrs. Fletcher’s son shook his head vigorously. 
“ S’pose I want to trim the edges with the shears ? 
Come on. Beat you over the tracks ! ” 

The, lot where the boys had held their first foot- 
ball practice was large and occupied more than half 
of the double city block on which the dairy farm 


72 


A SON OF THE CITY 


was located. The far end was flanked by a row of 
red, ramshackle frame stores, occupied by photog- 
raphers, art dealers, and a Greek ice cream soda 
shop. A little further in and along the railroad 
fence, dense weeds flourished, topping at times even 
the tallest of the boys. Nearer to the dairy, short, 
sparse grass struggled for existence under a profu- 
sion of tin cans, charred wood, and broken milk 
bottles. A considerable area had been cleared of 
these impediments, and formed the boys’ athletic 
grounds. Near one corner stood a monster pile 
of barrels and boxes, collected some months past, 
for a bonfire; but the policeman on the beat had 
interfered with a threat of arrest for the whole 
tribe, and the giant conflagration had not taken 
place. 

The pair were greeted with shouts as they jumped 
down from the railroad fence. 

'‘What took you so long?” Sid DuPree asked. 

John explained. The members of the gang of- 
fered congratulations at the escape, or sympathized 
with him over the work yet to be done, according 
to their several viewpoints. The elder Harrison 
boy led the two to one side and pointed out a scant 
bushel basket of the green ammunition. Others 
explained the plans for the morning’s fun. 

"Silvey ’n Til be generals of the armies,” said 
John, when the babel had diminished. Sid raised 
his voice in protest. 


A TERRIFIC BATTLE IS WAGED 


73 


“ Give somebody else a chance. Let Red and me 
be it this time.’’ 

Silvey shouted derisively. ’Member the time 
you got hit in the eye with a snowball ? Went home, 
bawling ‘ Ma-m-a-a, Ma-m-a-a.’ Fine general you’ll 
make ! ” 

Sid brandished his fists with a show of brag- 
gadocio. “Want to fight about it?” 

“ Na-a-w,” came the sneering reply. “ Don’t fight 
with cowards.” 

John turned upon the pair imperiously. “ Sil- 
vey ’n I’ll be generals, just as I said. Cut out the 
quarreling. If you don’t like it, you don’t have to. 
Want to quit?” 

Sid mumbled a sulky denial and retreated to the 
outer edge of the little group. There he poured out 
his troubles to the elder Harrison boy. John and 
Bill were always bossing things; ought to let him 
lead once in a while; thought they were the earth, 
anyway. 

John shot him a keen glance and whirled upon 
Silvey. 

“First choose!” he shouted. 

“’Tain’t fair,” objected his rival. “I wasn’t 
ready. Draw lots.” 

Perry Alford plucked a half-dozen blades of 
grass of varying lengths and folded them carefully. 
Then he held one, tightly closed, chubby hand first 
to Bill and then to John. The leaders compared 


74 


A SON OF THE CITY 


their prizes. Silvey gave an exultant yell and beck- 
oned to a gawky, loosely jointed lad who stood a 
little apart from the rest of the gang. 

“Come on, Skinny! You’re on my side.” 

Skinny’s long arms made him a welcome addi- 
tion to any force and a warrior to be feared at all 
times. Occasionally he performed feats of marks- 
manship which not even the two redoubtable leaders 
could equal. 

The group of boys drew closer. Perry Alford 
lagged with seeming nonchalance, a step in the rear 
of his more eager play-fellows. Sid DuPree picked 
up a pebble and threw it unerringly toward a rail- 
road fence post as John eyed him regretfully. 

If only that youngster had not such a reputation 
for quitting under fire, time and again during their 
many mimic battles! Then his glance fell upon 
Red Brown’s impudent, freckled face and he smiled. 
Here was a warrior with a temperament to delight 
the leader of a forlorn hope. 

“ Come on. Red ! ” 

Sid was promptly seized upon by the rival com- 
mander. 

“Perry Alford,” said John. 

The remaining half-dozen mediocrities were di- 
vided without further ado. Then the two leaders 
stepped gravely to one side and discussed the rules 
for the approaching conflict, while the rank and file 
of the two armies, twelve strong, amused themselves 


A TERRIFIC BATTLE IS WAGED 


75 


by wrestling, throwing bits of stone and glass up on 
the railroad tracks, and engaging in impromptu 
games of tag. 

Each fellow gets twenty cucumbers,” con- 
cluded John. “That’ll leave some for fun, later. 
If a man gets hit three times, he’s a deader and 
has to quit. Side wins when the other fellows are 
killed, same as it was last year.” 

Silvey nodded and beckoned to his clan. The 
Fletcherites were about to withdraw to the opposite 
side of the held when an unforeseen interruption 
occurred. 

“ Wanta hght ! ” announced a tousled-headed, 
wash-suited hve-year-old with determination. 

“ Go on ! ” retorted Silvey incautiously as he 
looked down upon the petitioner from the lofty 
height of ten long years of life. “This game ain’t 
for babies. It’s for men. You’d get hit in the eye 
and go home to ma-ma in a minute. You can’t 
play.” 

The infant eyed him for a moment and threw 
himself on the ground in a ht of rage. “Wanta 
hght! Wanta hght! Wanta hght!” he wailed 
again and again. 

Bill turned to Skinny Mosher angrily. “What 
do you always bring that kid brother along 
for? He spoils all our fun. Ain’t you got any 
sense ? ” 

“Sense?” replied that star marksman in injured 


76 


A SON OF THE CITY 


tones. “You bet I’ve got sense. But what’s a 
fellow to do when his ma says, ‘Now, Leonard, 
take little brother along and see that those big, 
rough boys don’t hurt him.’ ” Tone and manner- 
isms were in perfect imitation of Mrs. Mosher. 

“Give him some cucumbers and let him fool 
around. That’ll keep him quiet,” Red suggested. 

“Yes,” retorted Silvey scornfully. “Then he’ll 
mix in the fight and get hit and go home bawling, 
same as he did when we had the snow fort. Then 
his ma’ll go around to our mas and tell ’em what 
rough games we play and how it’s a wonder some- 
body hasn’t lost an eye. We’ll all get penny lec- 
tures and the fun’ll be spoiled for a week. Oh, yes, 
let him fight ! ” 

John broke the gloomy silence which followed. 
“Here, kid, you can join both armies at once.” 

The incubus ceased wailing and looked up 
eagerly. Silvey’s and Skinny’s faces bespoke per- 
turbed amazement. 

“How — ,” interrupted Red Brown. 

“You can be a Red Grosser and look after the 
ones who get killed,” John continued serenely. 
“Only you mustn’t fight. Red Crossers never do. 
They just stay around the hospitals.” He fumbled 
in a hip pocket for the bit of red school chalk which 
he used for marking hop-scotch squares on the side- 
walks. “Come here and I’ll put the cross on your 
arm. And,” he offered as alluring alternative, “if 


A TERRIFIC BATTLE IS WAGED 


77 


you don’t like that, I’ll punch your face and send 
you home ! ” 

Like the one non-office holder of a certain short- 
lived boys’ club who was given the specially created 
position of “ Honorable Vice-President,” the 
Mosher infant was more than placated. As he gal- 
loped off astride an imaginary horse for a circuit 
of the field, the factions breathed a unanimous 
sigh of relief. 

“No fair firing until we say ‘Ready,’” shouted 
the exultant diplomat, as he gathered his forces 
and led them toward their own territory. 

“Now,” said he, when they reached the tall, 
straggling weeds, “ how’re we going to beat ’em ? ” 

Immediately a babel of suggestions ensued. Bill 
waited a few impatient minutes and executed a 
taunting, barbaric war dance to the center of the 
field. Carefully planned campaigns were not for 
him; his force boasted too many good marks- 
men. 

“ ’Fraid cats ! ’Fraid cats ! ” he shrieked at the top 
of his lungs. “ C’ardy, c’ardy custard, eatin’ bread 
an’ must-a-ard. Come on an’ get beat. Come on 
an’ get beat.” 

John nodded at a suggestion of Red’s and turned 
to the dancing figure. 

“ Ready, ch-a-arge ! ” he shouted. Silvey re- 
treated promptly to the shelter of his own army. 
Presently his four weakest marksmen advanced. 


78 


A SON OF THE CITY 


“Wants to get us fighting,” explained General 
Fletcher, as he restrained his impatient subordi- 
nates. “Then he and Skinny and Sid will pick us 
off. Come on — and remember.” 

They advanced silently without wasting a cucum- 
ber. The elder Harrison boy who led the four 
skirmishers, ventured a shot to open the engage- 



ment. Silvey, Skinny, and Sid DuPree sauntered 
carelessly up. 

“Now!” shouted John. 

His little force split into two groups. Red, with 
Perry and two others, charged to the right of the 
advancing quartette, while the general’s detachment 
dodged quickly past their left. Then at a signal, 
seven arms loosed a shower of missiles at the 
startled trio of leaders. 

A cucumber caught Skinny Mosher squarely be- 
low his ear. Another left a moist spot on one of 
Silvey’s oft darned stockings. A third missile found 


A TERRIFIC BATTLE IS WAGED 


79 


another mark on the now bewildered Mosher. Red 
Brown advanced upon him. 

“Surrender!” he yelled. 

Mosher fished another cucumber from his trous- 
ers and fired squarely at his advancing enemy. 
That gentleman dodged, tripped upon a bit of debris, 
and fell over backwards with a “plop.^' As Skinny 
advanced incautiously to make sure of his victim, 
Red retired him with a glancing shot on his upraised 
hand. 

“You’re a deader, you’re a deader,” he yelled 
as Mosher lifted his arm a second time. “John 
hit you and the little Harrison kid hit you, and now 
I did. That makes three times, and you’re killed 
entirely.” 

“Shucks,” grunted the disgusted corpse. “Just 
as I was beginning to have some fun, too.” 

The victor busied himself in removing bits of 
flattened cucumbers from his juice-soaked hip 
pockets. “Just wait until ma sees these pants,” he 
said ruefully. “Hey, John, I’m going after more 
ammunition.” 

The main conflict slackened. To lose a first lieu- 
tenant at the outset, and to have two more members 
of your army near death, is no slight matter. Sil- 
vey grew more and more disconcerted as the failure 
of his offensive became apparent. 

“ Beat it,” he yelled at last as a stray shot missed 
his shoulder by a scant inch. The survivors re- 


80 


A SON OF THE CITY 


treated to the shelter of the boxes and barrels, 
where they maintained a desultory fire. 

The advantage of the impromptu fort began to 
make itself felt. Missile after missile shot accu- 
rately out at the attackers and retaliation was well 
nigh impossible. John withdrew his forces just out 
of range. 

‘‘WeVe got to do something,” he said desper- 
ately. Who’s hit on our side ? ” 

Red pointed to a discolored nose and admitted 
‘‘Twice.” Perry Alford indicated a moist, dark 
circle on his wash blouse and a sticky lock of hair. 
Their leader looked grave. 

“Silvey’s hit twice, and Skinny’s dead, so that 
leaves them only five. But, Jiminy, Red, if you and 
Perry get hit, it’s all up. And look where they are. 
Maybe I can get ’em to come out.” 

He advanced a few paces toward the weathered 
heap of debris and broke into a time-honored taunt : 

Silvey, th’ bilvey, 

Th’ rik-stick-stilvey ! 

To which the intrenched commander of the enemy 
replied, 

Fletcher, oh, Fletcher, 

Th’ old fly catcher, 

and exposed just enough of his person to wriggle 
ten brazen fingers from the tip of his nose. John 
made a last, despairing attempt. 


A TERRIFIC BATTLE IS WAGED 


81 


“ Traid-cat ! ’Fraid-cat! ’Fraid of getting hi-i-t! 
Ya-a-h ! ” 

‘‘ Come on and hit me, then,” came back the 
answer, which admitted of no retort save action. 

‘‘We’ve got to chase ’em out someway.” He 
turned desperately to Red. “You and Perry Al- 
ford sneak up behind that thick lot of weeds when 
we start yelling and dancing like everything. Then 
we’ll charge and drive ’em around to your end. 
But don’t let ’em hit you.” 

In the meantime, the youngest member of the 
Mosher family had discovered that his position as 
“ Red-Crosser ” carried only a decoration on his 
sleeve, which admitted of no honor or excitement 
whatever. He crept up, unobserved by the excited 
Fletcher ites, raided the cucumber basket of as many 
of the missiles as his little pockets would hold, and 
halted within easy distance to watch the attack on 
the fortress. 

Red and Perry sneaked stealthily to the weed- 
clump ambush while their comrades showered cu- 
cumbers on the sheltered foe recklessly. Occasion- 
ally the defenders replied with a shot whenever a 
good mark was presented, but for the most part, 
they seemed content to keep the box heap between 
them and their enemies and bide their time. 
Farther and farther away they edged in response to 
the flanking movement of the main division of 
John’s army, until Red, deeming the moment oppor- 


82 


A SON OF THE CITY 


tune, fired. Perry Alford followed. Silvey, sur- 
prised by the sudden attack from the rear, turned 
and received a cucumber full upon his half-open 
lips. 

‘‘Who did that?” he sputtered, as he dislodged 
the acrid fragments from his mouth. 

Red threw caution to the winds and danced ex- 
ultantly out in the open. 

“You’re a deader. You’re a deader. I killed 
the general. I killed the general.” 

Silvey advanced on him furiously. “ Pll punch 
your face in, hitting me in the mouth that way.” 

Brown was ever in ecstasy at the prospect of a 
fight. “ Come on and do it,” he retorted. “ Didn’t 
last football practice, did you?” 

Silvey doubled his fists. His opponent held his 
ground. The rank and file of the two armies 
dropped their cucumbers and gathered in a little 
semi-circle to watch the fight. The youngest 
Mosher boy crept up and balanced himself unstead- 
ily on one foot. In his right hand he held a cucum- 
ber, and on his face shone set determination. 

“ Wanta fight,” he cried, as the combatants began 
the inevitable preliminary sparring. “ Goin’ta 
fight!” 

The next moment, a cucumber caught Silvey 
squarely in the eye. The latter turned, dug 
viciously in his pocket for ammunition, and fired a 
handful of cucumbers at his assailant without per- 


A TERRIFIC BATTLE IS WAGED 


83 


ceiving, in his blind rage, who it was. Yell after 
yell filled the air. 

Now look what you’ve done,” exclaimed 
Mosher miserably. ‘‘Just watch me catch it when 
he gets home.” 

“ Well,” Silvey snapped, still angry as the others 
gathered around the infant, “ I told him to keep out 
of the cucumber basket. What did he throw at 
me for?” 

The wails continued. Skinny bent anxiously over 
his brother. “ Come, buddy,” he coaxed. “You’re 
not hurt badly.” 

“W-a-a-a-h!” The boys began to feel alarmed. 

.“Where did he hit you?” 

“W-a-a-a-h!” 

Silvey looked down remorsefully. “Here, kid, 
here’s some cucumbers. You can hit me as hard 
as you want and get even.” 

“W-a-a-a-h!” 

Once more, Mosher tried to assuage his brother’s 
grief. “ Look at the funny man who’s coming over 
to see you. Don’t let him find you crying.” 

The “ funny man ” proved to be the school physi- 
cian who was returning from a professional call. 
He dropped his medical case on the turf and stooped 
over the prostrate urchin, who promptly kicked him 
in the shins. 

The doctor drew back hastily. “ What’s the mat- 
ter ? ” he queried. 


84 


A SON OF THE CITY 


“ Th-th bad boy hit me.” 

‘‘ Which one ? ” 

A grimy, tear streaked hand pointed to Silvey. 
The medic turned to him. 

‘‘Come here, boy,” he said majestically. 

Instead, Silvey beat a hasty retreat to the railroad 
tracks. There, from the summit of the embank- 
ment, he heaped abuse on the inoffensive figure with 
the little black case. 

“ Smarty, smarty, smart-e-e-e ! ” he shrilled. 
“Johnny made a monkey of you. Johnny made a 
monkey of you!” 

The ex-members of the armies snickered. Still 
the shouts continued. The doctor flushed a deep 
scarlet. To retreat in the face of the taunts seemed 
cowardly- — to remain was rapidly becoming insuf- 
ferable. 

“Tell your friend he’d better keep quiet,” he said 
in futile anger. Silvey interpreted the gesture which 
accompanied the ultimatum. 

“Come on and make me quit,” he chanted. 
“Johnny made a monkey of you and I can, 
to-o-o ! ” 

The physician grinned sheepishly and took a few 
swift strides after the dancing figure. Silvey waited 
until he was almost at the wire railroad fence, and 
retreated to one of the back yards on the opposite 
side of the embankment. As the doctor retraced 
his steps to the sidewalk, the boys gazed thought- 


A TERRIFIC BATTLE IS WAGED 


85 


fully at the depleted supply of ammunition. John 
turned to Skinny Mosher. 

“Take that kid away before he gets us into more 
trouble. He’s always spoiling our fun, anyway. 
What’ll we do now.” 

“Let’s go over to the street and get chased,” 
Perry Alford suggested, as Skinny started towards 
home with his sniffling, reluctant brother. 

They apportioned the last of the cucumbers and 
crossed the tracks in single file, pausing now to bal- 
ance fantastically on the shining steel rails, and now 
to skip flat, smooth pebbles against the black, weath- 
ered girders which supported the block signals. As 
they reached the home precincts, a still-panting 
figure joined them. 

“Has he gone?” 

John nodded. “He was only bluffing. Might 
have known that. We’re going over to the 
flats.” 

“The flats” was the largest building on their 
home street. Built on the corner, in the shape of 
a huge, four-storied, red brick “ C,” it was really 
composed of a number of apartments with separate 
entrances with a common, cement-paved inside court 
on which the back porches fronted. The basements 
were given over to boiler rooms, laundry tubs, and 
storerooms, linked by long, twisting, badly lighted 
corridors which formed excellent hiding places for 
the boys in time of pursuit. 


86 


A SON OF THE CITY 


The gang gathered noisily just off the corner and 
waited for victims. A gray-haired, poorly clad 
woman shuffled past. Sid raised his arm. Silvey 
whispered a protest. That’s old lady Allen. Has 
the rheumatism. Leave her alone.” 

John broke into a gleeful chortle. Look what’s 
coming, fellows.” 

The cause of his exultation was a callow youth 
of sixteen, whose father had met with a sudden 
wave of prosperity and was now trying to sell his 
rather modest home that he might move to a more 
exclusive neighborhood. The son was inclined to 
patronize old acquaintances and affected a multitude 
of expensive tailored clothes and a light cane. 
John eyed the gray, immaculately pressed suit ap- 
preciatively and let fly. 

The boy wheeled in surprise, then stooped to pick 
up his hat. 

*‘You fellows had better cut that out,” he blus- 
tered, as he straightened the soft, felt brim. 

“Who’s going to make us?” Silvey jeered, as his 
cucumber hit the neat lapel. 

“Just do that again. I’ll show you.” 

A volley of the juicy missiles greeted his words. 
He charged upon the boys, who fled to the haven 
of the darkest of the corridors and took refuge in 
an empty outer storeroom. There they barricaded 
themselves and awaited his coming. 

“Ya-a-ah,” John taunted, as he heard heavy 


A TERRIFIC BATTLE IS WAGED 


87 


breathing through the door. What’ll you do 
now?” 

‘‘Just wait until dinner time.” 

“Not going to make us stay that long, are you? 
Please don’t be mean.” 

The elder boy deigned no reply. John raised the 
little window which fronted the street and grinned. 
One by one the gang climbed through the narrow 
opening to the sidewalk and left their vindictive 
enemy guarding the empty storeroom. 

Across the street from the flats stood the building 
which housed the corner drug store and “ Neighbor- 
hood Hall,” used according to season for high- 
school dances, minstrel shows, and fraternal meet- 
ings. They assembled at the entrance, which com- 
manded an excellent view of all approaches leading 
from the flats, and awaited developments. 

A little girl rounded the corner with sundry 
grocer’s packages in her arms. She noticed that the 
boys were gathered in the excited group, which 
always spelled danger to unescorted maidens, but 
held bravely on. As she passed, Silvey yelled ex- 
ultantly. Perry Alford threw wildly and hit the 
ground by her feet. Red’s missile caught one nerv- 
ous, white little hand and made her drop a bag of 
eggs to the sidewalk. John raised his arm, then 
lowered it as if paralyzed. 

It was Louise ! 

“ Quit that fellows,” he cried, seizing on the first 


88 


A SON OF THE CITY 


excuse which came into his mind. She’s a little 
girl.” 

Silvey looked at him in blank amazement. ‘‘ What 
of it?” he ejaculated. ‘'Ain’t the first time you’ve 
made one cry.” 

John’s lips tightened. “Don’t care if it isn’t,” he 
snapped. “Stop that, Sid, or I’ll punch your face 
in.” 

He threw his own cucumber into the gutter to 
show that his was a peaceful errand and walked 
hastily over to the sobbing figure. 

“ They’ll leave you alone,” he assured her. “ Let 
me pick up your eggs.” 

They were smashed beyond all hope of salvage, 
but he gathered the fragments of shell, with as 
much of the dust-laden yolks as he could scrape up, 
and placed them gravely in the torn, soggy bag. 
Then he took the bread and the butter from her 
very gently and turned his back on the gang. 



“I’ll carry them all for you,” he 
said, almost in a whisper. “Let’s 
go home now.” 


She acquiesced silently. 


They strolled down the 


leafy walk. John’s 
tingled unpleas- 


antly, • for he ex- 


pected a shower of missiles. 
* Louise’s weeping ceased, save 


A TERRIFIC BATTLE IS WAGED 


89 


for an occasional sniffle. At last Silvey roused him- 
self from the amazed silence into which his chum’s 
actions had thrown him, and seized upon the solu- 
tion of the mystery. 

“Johnny an’ Lou-i-ise! Johnny an’ Lou-i-ise!” 

Louise flushed scarlet and bit her lip. John turned 
and stuck out his tongue defiantly. An awkward 
silence followed. 

“ I’ll punch that kid’s head off when I catch him,” 
he growled as the shouts continued. Louise looked 
up at him shyly. 

“ I don’t mind,” she said. 

They halted in front of the three-story apartment 
where her parents lived. John shifted clumsily 
from one foot to the other, not knowing how to 
make a graceful adieu. The maiden came to his 
rescue with a parrot-like imitation of Mrs. Martin’s 
formula for such occasions. 

“Thank you very much — and — I’m so glad to 
make your acquaintance.” 

Though the words were ridiculously stilted, John 
turned with a song on his lips and skipped across 
to the home porch swing, where his mother found 
him a moment later, and made him come in and get 
washed for dinner. 

That afternoon he walked north to the branch 
library to turn in his book on which a six-cent fine 
impended. With the yellow card in his hand, he 
went over to the fiction section of the open shelves. 


90 


A SON OF THE CITY 


No more Hentys, no more Optics. He was in love, 
and love stories he must have. 

Silvey, Perry Alford, and Red sauntered up just 
before supper to find out how the land lay. They 
found him stretched out on the porch swing with 
the latest acquisition from the library beside him. 

“Say, John,” Silvey began nervously. He was 
afraid he had gone a little too far that morning. 

John raised dreamy eyes. What did he care 
about commonplace declarations of friendship such 
as Silvey was making? His head was a-riot with 
the thrilling words of the latest love passage be- 
tween the hero and a heroine so perfect that her 
like never existed beyond the covers of a novel, and 
the interruption bored him. 

“So you see,” Perry chimed in as Bill finished, 
“we didn’t want you to be mad about it.” 

John waved a magnanimous dismissal. “But 
don’t do it again,” he cautioned apathetically, 
“ ’cause — well — she’s my girl. That’s all.” 

And again his eyes sought the alluring pages of 
the book. 



CHAPTER V 


HE COMPOSES A LOVE MISSIVE 

O UNDAY afternoon, Mr. Fletcher took his son 
^ for a long stroll in the park. They joined the 
throng of people who promenaded up and down 
the broad cement walk along the beach, and watched 
the antics of the children with their transitory cas- 
tles until this pleasure began to pall. Then they 
retraced their steps westward to the big island and 
explored the fascinating, winding paths along the 
shrubbery-covered shores. Everywhere were signs 
of autumn. A light carpet of half-dried leaves had 
already covered the ground. The song birds in the 
fast yellowing, graceful willows were supplanted 
by silent, migratory groups of somber j uncos, who 
fled at their approach. Here and there, they sur- 
prised a squirrel adding another peanut to his well- 
buried winter cache. But a little later, a pair of 
lovers on a narrow peninsula bank separated awk- 
wardly as the two sauntered up, and John laughed 
joyously. The spirit of summer was as yet far from 
dead. 

Still they wandered on as their fancy pleased 
them. Far to the south of the park, John collected 
an armful of cat-tails from a bit of marshland, and 

91 


92 


A SON OF THE CITY 


Mr. Fletcher pointed out to him a strange, spotted 
lizard, which scurried for shelter from the intruders. 
As they returned, they loitered by the green, veran- 
daed club house to count the fast diminishing fleet 
of yachts, and joined an ironic audience who 
watched the struggles of two motorboat owners 
with their craft, and a pair of rickety wagon trucks. 
Sunset found them climbing the home steps to sink 
into the easy porch chairs and wait blissfully until 
Mrs. Fletcher announced that supper was ready. 

Now by all the laws of small boy nature, John’s 
eyes should have closed that night five minutes after 
his head had touched the pillow. But then it was 
that the inexplicable happened. Louise forced a dis- 
turbing entrance into his thoughts with a strange 
insistency. Was she sleeping peacefully or was she 
thinking of her rescue from the mercies of the 
gang? Perhaps she had already forgotten him. 
Still, the boys hadn’t. They would probably spread 
the details of the love affair all over the juvenile 
neighborhood. Would she walk with him if they 
did? 

The big clock in the hall of the house next door 
struck ten. He discovered that a wrinkle in the 
sheet chafed his back and smoothed it out half 
angrily. 

Why couldn’t he go to sleep? Had Louise’s 
mother been vexed at the broken eggs ? How pretty 
the girl’s long ringlets had looked as she stood on 


HE COMPOSES A LOVE MISSIVE 


93 


the sunlit corner that morning. Did she like to 
fish? An expedition for two could be arranged in 
spite of the late season. He’d bait her hook and 
take the fish off if she wished. Lunch could be 
prepared beforehand and they wouldn’t have to 
worry about meal time. 

Again the timepiece next door chimed its mes- 
sage. He counted the strokes — seven — eight — 
nine — itn — eleven! Only twice before had he re- 
mained awake so late — once on a railroad trip, and 
once when Uncle Frank had come to visit them. 
He rubbed his clenched fists in his eyes and won- 
dered if he dared light the gas to read. He could 
keep his geography near as an excuse if anyone dis- 
covered him. Then, hastened possibly by the sopo- 
rific influence of that school book, sleep came at last. 

In the morning, John tried to analyze the causes 
for his mental rampage as he drew on one toe- 
frayed stocking. Now that his mother had roused 
him for the third and final time, he felt tired enough 
to sleep another three hours. What had been the 
matter ? 

A love scene from that latest public library book 
flashed into his perplexed brain and he sighed con- 
tentedly. Had not Leander sacrificed long hours 
of precious slumber at the shrine of his beloved 
Philura? The inference in his own case was both 
obvious and satisfactory. 

To tell Louise of his infatuation seemed the next 


94 


A SON OF THE CITY 


and most logical step. He lacked the courage for a 
verbal declaration; therefore the message must be 
in writing. But in what form? Letter writing to 
a girl was a novel experience, and he had a horror 
of parental laughter if he asked for advice. 

‘‘John!” his mother called from the stairway. 
“ Aren't you ever going to get dressed ? ” 

He pulled on his second stocking hastily, with a 
call of “ Down in a minute. Mother.” 

His grandmother’s old Complete Letter Writer 
was in the library bookcase. That ought to help 
him out of his predicament. Wasn’t it the Co}fP- 
plete—’^ 

“John!” came a second and more peremptory 
interruption of his thoughts. “ Get down here this 
minute.” 

He started, drew on his shoes, half-buttoned 
them, slipped into his blouse, with boyish disregard 
for such matters as bathing, and scampered down 
the stairs to the dining-room. After a hasty meal 
of oatmeal and potatoes, he fled to the seclusion of 
the library. A moment of nervous fumbling with 
the lock, a rapid turning of pages, and — 

“ From a son at an educational institution, to his 
father, engaged in business at Boston, requesting — ” 
But he didn’t want to borrow money from Louise. 
“ Honored Parent ! ” Why, “ Honored Louise ” 
would sound too ridiculous for anything. 

“From a merchant engaged in the hay and grain 


HE COMPOSES A LOVE MISSIVE 


95 


business in Baltimore, to a wholesale dealer in New 
York, complaining that — ’’ 

Such prosaic details as hay and grain shortages 
were not for him. He wanted a love letter, an 
epistle that would breathe the fire of adoration in 
every line. Didn’t the old book have any ? The title 
said Complete — What was this? 

“ From a young man — ” He skipped the rest of 
the heading — such things didn’t have much to do 
with the real contents anyway. 

‘‘ Beloved — ” 

That sounded better. 

“When first I—” 

The door opened suddenly. Mrs. Fletcher gazed 
down at him in astonishment. 

“ Haven’t you gone to school yet ? It’s five min- 
utes of nine, now. What on earth have you been 
doing? ” 

The book dropped to the floor. A scant five mfin- 
utes later, he stumbled breathlessly into the school 
room, only to find that roll call had been finished 
and that “ B ” class was holding its English recita- 
tion. Miss Brown frowned and made a mark in 
the record book on her desk, and went on with the 
class work. Out came his theme pad and pencil. 
The fifteen minute study period was his for the com- 
position of that letter and he set to work. 

What did a fellow usually say to a girl, anyway? 
He’d never written one before. He twisted in his 


96 


A SON OF THE CITY 


seat and caught a glimpse of the adored one's grace- 
ful curls, but even with this inspiration, ideas refused 
to come. 

B ” division closed its composition books and 
began to recite under Miss Brown’s guidance. 

And she, kissing back, could not know 
That my kiss was given to her sister, 

Folded close under deepening snow. 

For two long weeks they had been memorizing 
‘‘The First Snow-Fall,” but were not as yet, letter- 
perfect in the verses. The teacher encouraged them. 
Twenty odd juvenile voices resumed the choppy, 
monotonous chant. John gripped his pencil with 
new life. 

Poetry ! That was the only way to express your 
sentiments! Why hadn’t he thought of it before? 
Once, in third grade, he had composed a master- 
piece. think, what do you think? 

A mouse ran under the kitchen sink. 

The old maid chased it 
With dustpan and broom 
And kicked it and knocked it 
Right out of the room. 

The slip of paper had been passed to a chum for 
appreciation, only to have Miss O’Rourke pounce 
upon the effort and read it to an uproarious class. 
His ears burned, even now, at that memory. 

But there would be no second disaster. He began 
on the ruled sheet boldly. 


HE COMPOSES A LOVE MISSIVE 


97 


“ Beloved Louise ! ” 

Then came a pause. Oh for a first line! You 
couldn’t start out -with “ I love you.” That would 
make further words unnecessary. What did people 
usually put in poems? All about stars, and the 
warm south wind and roses. A fugitive bit of verse 
echoed in his brain. ‘‘ The rose — ” He had it now I 

The rose is red. 

The violet’s blue. 

This will tell you 
I love you. 

To be sure, the bit of doggerel had been inscribed 
on a card sent him by Harriette in the third-grade 
valentine box, but Louise need never know the secret 
of its authorship. And it expressed his feelings 
with such a degree of nicety ! 

He scrawled a huge, concluding “John,” folded 
the paper complacently, and waved one hand to 
attract Miss Brown’s attention. 

“ Please, may I go over to the school store and 
buy a copy book?” 

“ Are your lessons prepared for this afternoon ? ” 

“Yes’m.” 

Consent was given. John rose, with the compact 
paper hidden in his right hand, and sauntered care- 
lessly down the aisle. At his old desk, he paused 
with a fleeting glace at Louise as he dropped the 
note, and walked on into the hall. There he stopped 
to peer into the room through the half-closed door. 


98 


A SON OF THE CITY 


Louise covered the note with one hand and drew 
it toward her slowly and with infinite caution. He 
watched her face breathlessly. Curiosity was suc- 
ceeded by surprise and then by anger. A little toss 
of her curls, a glance at teacher, and she half turned 
toward the door. He could see that her face was 
scarlet. What was she going to do ? 

Horror of horrors, she stuck out her tongue at 
him! 

The ways of girls were beyond his comprehen- 
sion. There was no cause for offense in that note. 
He loved her. Why should she object to being 
told about it? 

He made his way moodily down the broad flight 
of stairs leading to the basement. There, in the 
big, dimly lighted, cement-floored playroom, where 
the children held forth on rainy days, he met a boy 
from another room, who was likewise in no hurry 
to return. They hailed each other in subdued tones. 

“Been down long?” 

“Oh, our teacher doesn’t get mad unless you’re 
gone half an hour. Want to play marbles? ” 

John assented joyously. His friend chalked an 
irregular circle on the floor, and presently the room 
resounded with shouts of “H’ist,” and “No fair 
dribblin’ ” until the grizzled school janitor sent them 
flying to their rooms under threat of a visit to the 
principal’s office. 

At the doorway, he paused to summon his cour- 


HE COMPOSES A LOVE MISSIVE 


99 


age, for time had flown all too rapidly in the base- 
ment. Louise showed not a sign of recognition as 
he passed. Miss Brown broke the oppressive 
silence. 

“Where’s the copy book, John?” 

His lower lip dropped in consternation. His ex- 
cuse for leaving had been completely forgotten. “ A 
quarter of an hour after school ” was the sentence 
for the offense, and he opened his geography with 
a feeling of thankfulness that it had not been more. 

All about the brick-paved school yard, on the 
walk, and in the street gutters, were scattered ob- 
longs of blue paper as he scampered from the 
deserted building at noon. The boy picked one of 
the handbills up and read with an odd thrill : 

Professor T. J. O’Reilley’s 

PUNCH AND JUDY SHOW 
in 

Three Stupendous, Sidesplitting Parts 
at 

NEIGHBORHOOD HALL, 

Monday, October 4, at 4:1s p- tn. 

I 

Punch and Judy. The old favorite as played before 
the Crowned Heads of Europe. All the well-known char- 
acters, with added mirth provoking innovations. Alone 
worth the price of admission. 


100 


A SON OF THE CITY 


II 

Peck’s Bad Boy and His Pal. Startling, amusing, and 
instructive exhibition of ventriloquism by that amazing 
expert. Professor T. J. O’Reilley. Hear the Bad Boy and 
his friend talk and joke as if they were really alive. 
During this act Professor O’Reilley uses one of his mar- 
velous ventriloquial whistles and will explain its operation 
to the audience. 

III 

Motion Pictures. Actual figures thrown on the screen 
that do everything but talk. Thrilling display of the 
heroism of American Soldiers during the Spanish-Amer- 
ican War ! See the landing of the Regulars under fire ! 
See men fall in actual battle before your very eyes ! 
Watch the charge up San Juan Hill — the thrilling infan- 
try skirmish ! 

Followed by 

A Grand Distribution of Valuable Prizes ! Glistening 
Ice Skates. Rings, Dolls, Doll Carriages, and other Toys. 
In addition, every man, woman, and child in the audience 
who does not win a gift, will receive absolutely free, one 
of Professor O’Reilley’s marvelous ventriloquial whistles. 

TWO HOURS OF AMUSING 
AND INSTRUCTIVE ENTERTAINMENT! 

Admission only ten cents! 

Could he go? Of course, for the necessary dime 
was always forthcoming from his mother when an 
itinerant showman rented the corner dance hall for 
a one day performance. 

On the corner of Southern Avenue, he overtook 
Bill, who had stopped to play tops with an acquaint- 
ance. 


HE COMPOSES A LOVE MISSIVE 


101 


'‘Going?” he asked, as his chum glanced at the 
blue slip in his hand. 

“ Bet your life,” said Silvey decidedly. “ Did you 
see the rings the man showed in the school yard ? ” 

John reminded him of the fifteen minute deten- 
tion. “Were they pretty?” 

“ Pretty? They were just peaches — all gold and 
stones, and sparkled like everything.” 

They parted at his front steps. John plodded 
thoughtfully homeward, for his brain buzzed with 
a new and daring possibility. Would Louise over- 
look the morning’s fiasco and allow him to take her ? 
He broached the matter of finances to Mrs. Fletcher. 

“But what do you want two dimes for? Tell 
Mother.” 

No, he wouldn’t. But he had to have the two 
coins. Mrs. Fletcher studied him curiously. 

“ Is there some little girl you want to take ? ” 

An evasive silence followed her question. Never- 
theless his brown eyes pleaded his cause so elo- 
quently that one o’clock found him sitting on the 
front porch, jingling the money merrily in one hand. 

The day was crisp and sunny, with an invigorat- 
ing breeze from the lake, which set the blood puls- 
ing in his veins. Ordinarily, he would have scam- 
pered off to play with Bill and Perry Alford or Sid 
on the way to school, but not this time. He was 
waiting for some one. 

Shortly a dainty, pink pinafored figure with the 


102 


A SON OF THE CITY 


familiar curly ringlets skipped past on the opposite 
side of the street. When she had gone perhaps fifty 
yards, John walked down the steps and followed 
not too rapidly. He must catch up quite as if by 
accident, for it would never do to have the meeting 
occur seemingly of his own volition. 

She saw him coming and halted at the corner 
drug store to gaze demurely at a window display of 
gaily tinned talcum powder. As the boy came up to 
her, a queer, choking sensation filled his throat. 

“ ’Lo,” he gulped nervously. Not a sign of recog- 
nition. Evidently “Rose is red” still rankled. 

“’Lo,” he persevered. She raised her chin ever 
so slightly. “Those kids won’t throw any more 
cucumbers. I fixed ’em.” Perhaps the memory of 
his protection that Saturday would pave the way to 
peace. 

“ ’Lo,” she responded at last. They forsook the 
enticements of the drug window and walked on in 
embarrassed silence. 

“ Had to stay after school this morning,” he vol- 
unteered desperately. 

“Why?” 

Back to his folly again. What a dunce he was! 

“Why?” she asked again. 

“ Oh, ’cause.” Conversation dragged once more. 

What could he talk to her about ? He knew noth- 
ing of dolls and keeping house and making clothes. 
And he didn’t suppose she could tell “Run, sheep. 


HE COMPOSES A LOVE MISSIVE 


103 


run” from “Follow the leader,” either. He fum- 
bled in his pocket and brought out the folded blue 
circular with a show of nonchalance. She eyed it 
curiously. 

“ Going? ” he asked. 

She didn’t know. 

“ I’ve got two tickets,” eagerly. “ Want to come 
with me?” The school yard lay but a half-block 
ahead, so he went on hurriedly, “ There’s Silvey and 
the bunch. I’ve got to see ’em. Meet you on this 
corner after school.” 

The truth of the matter was that not even his 
infatuation was equal to passing that mob of shout- 
ing, yelling urchins with a girl by his side. 

You might have guessed that something unusual 
was to occur, had you passed Neighborhood Hall 
that afternoon. By the green mail box on the cor- 
ner, an envied seventh-grade boy, subsidized by an 
offer of free admission, passed out more blue cards 
like the one John had found, and advised that they be 
retained, for “Them’s got programs on, and you’ll 
need ’em.” On the broad pavement, excited little 
groups of boys read and reread the announcements 
amid running choruses of approving comment. 
Now and then, a fussy, important matron bustled 
past with a four- or five-year-old following in her 
wake. Around the door, a baker’s dozen of boys 
with shaggy hair and sadly worn clothes besought 
the more prosperous of the grown-ups, “Take us 


104 


A SON OF THE CITY 


in, Mister [or “Missis’’ as the case might be], we 
ain’t got no dime.” 

Inside the great, raftered, brilliantly lighted hall 
were rows upon rows of collapsible chairs, which 
slid and scraped on the slippery dance floor as their 
owners took possession of them. John and Louise 
secured seats in the third row, center, where they 
commanded an excellent view of the tall, black cab- 
inet where Punch and his family were soon to ap- 
pear. Around them, a babel of noise and confusion 
held sway. The place was filling rapidly. Boys 
called to each other from opposite corners of the 
room. A not infrequent shout of surprised anger 
arose as a seated juvenile clattered to the floor 
through the agency of some mischief-maker in his 
rear. Eighth-grade patriarchs, retained by the same 
pay as the corner advance agent, darted here and 
there in the aisles, striving to preserve order amid 
a great show of authority. Up on the little bal- 
conies at each side groups of trouble-makers per- 
formed gymnastics on the railings and banisters at 
seeming peril of their lives until the colored janitor 
ordered them down. Every now and then, the wail- 
ing of a heated, irritable infant rose above the din, 
to be quieted more or less angrily by its mother. 

John looked at his watch. “ Most time to start,” 
he whispered. 

Indeed, the audience was beginning to grow rest- 
less. In the rear rows, a claque started a steady 


HE COMPOSES A LOVE MISSIVE 


105 


handclapping, and cat-calls and hisses from unman- 
nerly boys became more and more frequent. 

Then entered upon the stage Professor T. J. 
O’Reilley amid a storm of relieved applause. The 
bosom of his stiff white shirt might have been a 
trifle soiled, the diamond glistening therein, palpably 
false, and the lapels of his full-dress coat, distress- 
ingly shiny, but to John and Louise, he seemed a 
very prince of successful entertainers. He bowed 
perfunctorily, issued a few words of admonition to 
the boisterous element in the audience, and disap- 
peared in the long, black cabinet. 

Ensued a series of raps from somewhere in the 
folds of the cloth, and subdued cries of ‘‘ Oh, dear, 
dear, dear! Judy, Judy, Judy! Where is she?” 
The familiar, hooked-nosed figure appeared on the 
little stage and John sighed in ecstasy. What mat- 
tered if Punch’s complexion were sadly in need of 
renewal through his many quarrels — he was the 
same old Punch, and his audience greeted him as 
such. Judy followed. 

‘'He’ll send her after the baby, now. You just 
see!” John whispered as the marionettes danced 
excitedly back and forth. 

“How do you know?” Louise’s eyes were 
a-glisten. 

“ Haven’t you ever ever been to a Punch and Judy 
show before?” asked John in surprise. 

In one corner of the hall, a row of badly nour- 


106 


A SON OF THE CITY 


ished colored children from the district just north 
of the ''Jefferson Toughs,” forgot the family strug- 
gle for three meals a day and rent money in their 
present bliss, grins appeared on the faces of the 
adults in the hall, and the rest of the audience 
swayed and shouted and giggled as Punch made 
away with first the baby, then friend wife, the 
policeman, the clown, and the judge, and hung their 
bodies over the edge of the stage in time-honored 
fashion. 

A prolonged groan came from the depths of the 
cabinet. 

" It’s the devil,” said John, squirming ecstatically 
on his hard chair. "There he is, in one corner 
where Punch can’t see him.” 

Punch lifted a victim from one side of the stage 
to the other. 

" That’s one,” he counted. 

The red-faced, lively little imp returned the corpse 
to its original resting place. Some minutes of this 
comedy followed. 

"Twenty-six,” squawked the unsuspecting Punch 
in surprise, while the audience roared appreciatively. 
"Did I kill so many? Hello, who are you?” 

" I,” came the preternaturally deep voice as 
Louise quaked at the make-belief reality of the 
scene, "am the devil!” 

"Now they’ll fight,” breathed John, watching 
intently. "It’ll be the bulliest fight of all, and 


HE COMPOSES A LOVE MISSIVE 


107 


they’ll throw each other down and hit each other 
over the head forty-’leven times. Then the devil’ll 
win.” 

But a puritanical mother 
had, on the tour preceding, 
written Professor O’Reilley, 
objecting to the devil’s con- 
quest of the unrepentant old 
reprobate, so that master of 
ventriloquism introduced a 
new character into the an- 
cient tale, and the devil 
went the way of 


Punch’s other 
victims. 

H-m-m,” 
puzzled John 
with wrin- 
kled brow. 

“This isn’t the same — 

What’s that?” 

“Open,” ordered Punch of the long, flat object 
which appeared beside the body of the devil. 

“It’s an aggilator,” shrilled Louise as the mys- 
tery disclosed two terrific rows of teeth and a long, 
red throat. 

“ Shut,” ordered Punch. The jaws closed with a 
snap. 

“Isn’t it peachy?” whispered John. 



108 


A SON OF THE CITY 


“ Open,” ordered Punch once more. Again the 
jaws swung slowly and impressively apart. 

“Close,” repeated Punch, as he stooped danger- 
ously near the yawning cavern. 

The jaws snapped within a thirty-second of an 
inch of the arch-villain’s nose. Angered, Punch hit 
the beast with his little club, while the audience 
screamed in delight. Ensued a fight which changed 
rapidly to a pursuit back and forth over the bodies 
of Judy, the policeman, and the rest of the com- 
pany. At last Punch tripped and the animal seized 
upon him and bore him, shrieking, below. 

“ Is that all ? ” asked Louise, as the little curtain 
descended. 

“All?” John answered, as he glanced over the 
other delights promised by the blue advertisement. 
“All? Why it isn’t but a third over!” 

Two assistants turned impromptu stage hands 
and shifted the Punch and Judy cabinet to the rear 
of the stage. The professor stooped over a bat- 
tered trunk at the side, and brought out two life- 
sized dolls with huge, staring eyes, and swinging 
arms and legs. He sat down on a chair at the cen- 
ter of the platform. 

“ These,” he said as he balanced the manikins on 
his knees, “ are my two little boys. They’re usually 
very nice little fellows, but I’m afraid they’ve been 
shut up so long in that dark trunk that they’re feel- 
ing a little angry. I’ll have to see. Now [to the 


HE COMPOSES A LOVE MISSIVE 


109 


sandy-haired caricature on his right], tell the people 
what your name is. No? Then we’ll have to ask 
your friend here. What’s your name ? ” 

Sambo,” mouthed the black-faced marionette. 

‘‘ Gee ! ” whispered John, as he watched the pro- 
fessor’s lips closely. “How’s he do it?” 

“ Now, tell all these nice little girls and boys how 
old you are.” 

“ T-ten.” 

“ Did you ever go to school ? ” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“Now tell that little girl with the pink hair rib- 
bon who’s sitting in the third row, what you learned 
yesterday.” 

“ Ya-ya-ya,” interrupted the younger member of 
the Peck family. “Ya-ya-ya!” 

“Why, George,” admonished the ventriloquist. 
“Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, behaving in this 
way ? ” 

“No, I ain’t,” protested George incorrigibly. 
“Ya-ya-ya, blackface!” 

So it went for the space of a good half-hour. 
Pretty poor stuff, it may seem now, oh, you grown- 
ups who have lost the magic eyes of childhood, but 
snickers and shouts and giggles filled the hall while 
the dialogue lasted. Finally the lay figures waxed 
so disputatious that Professor O’Reilley consigned 
them to the darkness of the trunk from which they 


came. 


110 


A SON OF THE CITY 


“ Stay there until you behave yourselves,” he 
scolded, as the groans grew more and more subdued 
in protest against the captivity. 

Wish I could do that,” said John. Couldn’t I 
get teacher mad, talking at her from the black- 
board? ” 

“ Sh-sh,” whispered Louise. ‘‘ He’s going to 
speak.” 

“ Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls. We have 
with us today for the first exhibition in this part of 
the city, the most wonderful invention of the 
glorious age in which you are living. After the hall 
is darkened, I shall go down to the table where 
that lantern stands and throw upon the screen actual 
moving pictures taken from real life. You will see 
the landing of our brave troops upon the rock-bound 
shores of Cuba. You will witness a thrilling battle 
with Spanish insurrectos [the professor was getting 
his history a little mixed, but that mattered not a 
whit to his audience], and brave men will fall before 
your eyes in the charge up San Joon hill. I need 
not state that these pictures have been secured at 
an almost fabulous cost, for Professor T. J. O’Reil- 
ley always makes it a point to give his patrons the 
best of everything, regardless of expense. The best 
of order must be kept while the hall is in darkness. 
Anyone creating a disturbance at that time will be 
instantly expelled.” 

Thus did the professor conclude his introduction 


HE COMPOSES A LOVE MISSIVE 


111 


of the feature which, later, was to drive him and his 
kind out of business. 

A click, a sudden buzzing as if a giant swarm of 
bees were flying about in the center of the hall where 
the long, cylindrical gas tanks stood, and a six foot 
square of light flashed on the white curtain which 
had been lowered to the stage. 

The pictures flickered and jumped a great deal, 
and at times streaks on the old film gave the idea 
that the boat loads of infantry were approaching 
the shore in a torrent of rain, but the figures moved, 
nevertheless, and unslung rifles, and formed into 
companies. 

The charge up the hill under fire,’’ supplemented 
the operator. They had no titles for the motion pic- 
tures in those days. 

Amid a steady whirring, flashes of smoke ap- 
peared from the thickets overhanging the shore. A 
soldier threw up his arms, another pitched headlong 
into the sand, and the Americans swept up the slope 
in a charge which brooked no obstacles. Little girls 
handclapped vigorously, while the boys pounded on 
the floor with their feet and gave vent to weird 
whistles of enthusiasm. 

“And so San Joon was taken! ” 

“The hill wasn’t on the water that way,” John 
interrupted excitedly. “I’ve got a book at home 
with maps and everything. Wasn’t that way at 
all.’’ 


112 


A SON OF THE CITY 


‘‘ Let’s pretend it was,” Louise replied philosoph- 
ically. 

The lights flashed on in the hall to dazzle the eyes 
of the audience. A chair squeaked. There was a 
sound of footsteps near the doorway. 

“ Keep your seats,” cautioned Professor O’Reilley 
as he jumped up on the stage. “The drawing for 
prizes will now take place. Ryan,” to his assistant, 
“ bring them out on the stage as I call for them.” 

A babel arose. “Don’t you wish you could win 
the skates, Jim?” “What’ll you do if you get a 
ring?” “And there’s dolls and doll carriages, 
too.” 

The showman raised an arm as a signal for 
silence. “ Will some boy step up to draw the tickets 
from the hat ? ” 

Four or five eager volunteers scrambled over the 
footlights. The professor selected the largest of 
them. 

“ Number six-seventy-six ! ” John looked eagerly 
at the coupon which had been handed him at the 
door. “ Number six-seventy-six ! Who has it ? ” 

Harriette, the cast-off Harriette of last year, 
bobbed forward. 

“ Ah,” boomed the deep voice. “ A little girl, and 
a nice one, too.” Harriette stuck one finger in her 
mouth as she shifted sheepishly from foot to foot. 
“But the skates are boy’s. Isn’t that too bad? 
Now, little girl, do you think you will be satisfied 


HE COMPOSES A LOVE MISSIVE 


113 


with a nice, new dollar bill instead? Will that buy 
a good enough pair of skates?’' 

‘‘Jiminy!” John ejaculated enviously. 

“Number three-forty-four!” he continued, as his 
volunteer assistant drew out another slip. “And 
another little girl. Well, she gets this beautiful 
Brazilian pearl ring, set with wonderful, glistening 
rhinestones 1 ” 

The fortunate maiden scurried back to her mother 
as fast as her stocky little legs could carry her. 

“ Number seven-hundred-fifteen 1 Number seven- 
hundred-fifteen I ” 

“ Here ! ” shrieked John, as he nearly knocked the 
boy ahead of him over in an excited effort to get to 
the front. “That’s me!” Was it another pair of 
skates, or a baseball bat, or the big, shining jack- 
knife which the boys had told about? 

“ Number seven-fifteen is a boy, is it ? ” The pro- 
fessor’s eyes twinkled. 

“Ye — s — sir,” stammered John, nervously. 

“William,” ordered the distributor of prizes as 
he half turned to the exit in the wings. “ Bring out 
that doll carriage ! ” 

The house broke into vociferous mirth. Silvey, 
hailing him at the top of his lungs, counseled him 
to “ Give it to her ! Give it to her ! ” Sid DuPree’s 
face grinned maliciously at him from the first row. 
Slowly he stumbled down the aisle with the despised 
toy bumping after him, and rejoined Louise. 


114 


A SON OF THE CITY 


He scarcely heard the numbers of the other prize 
winners as they were called out. Nor did he pay 
attention to the professor’s lecture on the operation 
of the famous whistle which had so amused the 
audience that afternoon. 

Someway or other, he found himself out on the 
street with Louise. About him, boys scampered 
home in the fast gathering 
dusk. One or two yelled 
taunts about the doll carriage, 
and John was tempted to 
throw the wicker-bodied pest 
into the street. 

Louise was silent. She 
wanted to olYer consolation, 
for she felt that her escort 
was dangerously near tears 
over his humiliation, but 
she knew not how to begin. 
They sauntered along. 
John eyed the little piece 
of tape bound tin in the girl’s hand wtih reawaken- 
ing interest. 

“Would you like it?” she asked graciously. 

He murmured a husky “yes,” and put the whistle 
in his mouth. After a few uncertain “J-u-u-dys,” 
he trudged on again in silence. 

As they stopped in front of her apartment, John 
had an inspiration. 



HE COMPOSES A LOVE MISSIVE 


115 


*^Say, Louise/’ he began awkwardly, ‘‘I don’t 
want this doll carriage. Want it?” 

And though his words were ungracious, she 
caught the spirit which lay back of them and 
thanked him sweetly. 

Thereupon, John skipped happily homeward to 
make his parents miserable with divers attempts to 
imitate the noted T. J.’s Punch and Judy show. 
Two days later, he left the noise-maker lying on the 
floor by his bed, where Mrs. Fletcher confiscated it, 
and quiet reigned in the family again. 



CHAPTER VI 


IN WHICH WE LEARN THE SECRET CODE OF THE 
'' TIGERS 

T?OR over two weeks after Professor O’Reilley 
had gathered up his properties and gone in 
quest of juvenile dimes in other neighborhoods, 
John waited at the corner of the school yard for 
Louise, gravely added her books to his own under 
his arm, and walked slowly home with her. His 
roommates were at first loud in their jeers, but 
gradually the primitive jests grew less and less fre- 
quent until the daily meeting became a part of the 
unnoticed routine of the school. 

As for his friends, Silvey, after a few caustic 
remarks, forbore comment. Sid DuPree made the 
condescending admission that she wasn’t half-bad 
after all. And the “Tigers” found it a distinct 
addition to their prestige to have a feminine rooter 
who danced around on the sidelines and exhorted 
them to even greater deeds of valor as they ground 
chance opponents into the cinders of the big lot. 

Then it was, one Friday afternoon, that Miss 
Brown stacked her record books neatly in a little 
pile at one corner of the desk, placed the unmarked 
homework papers in one of the drawers, and made 
116 


THE SECRET CODE OF THE “ TIGERS 


117 


an innocent announcement which roused thoughts 
lying dormant in each boy’s brain to instant life. 

‘‘Halloween is only a week from Saturday. I 
want each member of the class taking part in the 
exercises to have the lines learned perfectly. We’ll 
rehearse Monday afternoon.” 

The rest of the speech fell on deaf ears with John. 
Halloween but a short seven days away? Why, it 
seemed scarcely three mornings ago that he had 
started on the fishing trip which nearly landed the 
big carp. The gang should be a big one, this time. 
Silvey and Sid, the Harrison kids, Mosher, Perry, 
and Red Brown were certainties, to say nothing of 
smaller groups which might join on that final night. 
He drew three solitary pennies from his pocket, ar- 
ranged them, heads up, in a row on the top of his 
desk, and stared at them until the bell rang for 
dismissal. 

With the coins in his hand, he swung back the 
door of the little school store, and hastened eagerly 
up to the proprietress. She greeted him with a 
smile, for the episode of the lemon drops was still 
fresh in her memory. 

“Pea shooters in yet?” he queried anxiously. 

They had arrived that very noon. 

“ Is there wood on the ends to keep the tin from 
cutting your mouth ? ” 

She nodded. The door swung back again as Sid 
DuPree and Silvey stamped noisily in. It developed 


118 


A SON OF THE CITY 


that they were on a similar errand, and presently 
Miss Thomas cut the cord around the big, blue bun- 
dle and gave them their weapons. The trio left in 
high spirits, puffing through the empty tubes, mak- 
ing imaginary shots at open windows, and bluster- 
ing loudly about past performances, as they saun- 
tered along. Silvey halted when the first of the 
grocery shops near the home corner was reached. 

Got any peas at your house, Sid ? ” 

Sid shook his head. His family dined at a near- 
by hotel most of the time, and a reserve stock of 
any kind of food was a rarity. John mentioned a 
big jar of beans on his mother’s pantry shelf. 

“ They’re no good,” said Silvey scornfully. Get 
stuck in the pea shooter and jam it all up. Got any 
money, Sid?” 

Sid had a penny. It was the day before the gen- 
erous allowance from Mr. DuPree was due, and his 
finances verged upon bankruptcy. Silvey had an- 
other, and John contributed the remainder of his 
little hoard. That brought the total to four cents. 

^‘S’pose he’ll sell us that little?” asked John, as 
they gazed at the tempting array of vegetables in 
the store window. They opened the door timidly. 
The rotund proprietor stepped forward as he stam- 
mered his request. 

“Of course!” He beamed on the trio good- 
naturedly. “ What kind do you want, boys ? ” 

“ Split’s the cheapest,” said Silvey thoughtfully. 


THE SECRET CODE OF THE “ TIGERS 


119 


But they don’t go as far, and it’s harder to hit 
anything with them.” 

They ordered the more expensive projectiles and 
divided them equally before they left the store. At 
the corner, the pharmacy was bombarded persis- 
tently until the drug apprentice sprang through 
the doorway and sent the boys flying down the 
street. 

The pursuit slackened at last and the white coated 
youth turned to go back. Silvey halted to pant a 
defiant “Ya-a-a, ya-a-a. Can’t catch us. Can’t 
catch us.” 

John pulled his chum’s a^rm impatiently and 
pointed to the vacant house just three lots south of 
Silvey’s home. 

Look,” he whispered, suddenly cautious. Some 
one’s forgotten to close the front door tight. We 
can lock it from the inside and go up to the attic. 
Nobody can get in to chase us, and we won’t do a 
thing with our pea shooters, oh, no ! ” 

Maybe the folks haven’t left. You can’t tell.” 

‘‘We can run, then. ’Sides, they won’t do any- 
thing.” 

They crossed the street and tiptoed up the dusty, 
rain-spotted veranda steps. John peered into the 
bleak, dirty parlor and reported the coast clear. 
Nevertheless, they hesitated on the very threshold. 

“You go first,” said Sid to Silvey. 

“All right,” Silvey nodded apathetically. He 


120 


A SON OF THE CITY 


peered in at the window. You don’t think there’s 
anyone inside, do you, fellows?” 

The trio listened intently. ‘‘Might be someone 
upstairs,” suggested Sid. “Tramps or something.” 

“ Shucks,” broke in John impatiently. “ You’re 
all ’fraid cats, that’s what you are.” 

“Go on in, yourself,” Bill retorted quickly. 

He drew a nervous breath, and swung the door 
swiftly back, as if afraid that his courage would 
ooze away before he reached the stairway. Sid and 
Silvey followed very cautiously over the scratched 
hardwood floor. 

“Shall I shut the door?” asked Bill as he took 
hold of the knob. 

“ N-no, we may have to run, yet.” 

They explored the main floor. No one was in the 
library, no one in the narrow, badly lighted dining- 
room, and no one in the dingy kitchen. All seemed 
quiet upstairs. Silvey bolted the basement door that 
they might not be pursued from that quarter, and 
Sid, as they returned to the hallway, cut off the ave- 
nue of escape to the street. John led the way up the 
winding, uncarpeted stairs. Silvey followed close 
at his heels and DuPree lagged in the rear. 

“ Boo-oo ! ” Sid shouted when they had ascended 
half the distance. 

John’s pea shooter clattered to the landing. Sil- 
vey turned angrily on the miscreant, his face still 
pale from the fright. 


THE SECRET CODE OF THE “TIGERS 


121 


‘‘I’ve a’ mind to punch your nose for that! 
’S’pose there was really somebody!” 

At last they reached their goal. Tales of wander- 
ing vagrants with lairs in the attics of vacant houses 

proved untrue in this 
instance, and John 
swung back the hinged 
window in the gable 
with a sigh of relief. 

“Jiminy!” he ex- 
claimed as he looked 
down upon the bright, 
reassuring play of light and 
shadow on the lawn and macadam below. 
“ Isn’t this great ? ” 

The boys stuffed their mouths so full 
of peas that conversation was impossible and 
waited for the first victim. A low, heavily 
laden lumber wagon, drawn by straining horses, 
creaked down the street. They concentrated their 
fire upon the driver by tacit consent, for each of the 
marksmen had had an aversion to causing runaways 
drilled into him by the hair brush or corset steel 
method. 

The teamster, bewildered by the steady rain of 
missiles, could see no one and departed in an atmos- 
phere of heated profanity. Came delivery boys, 
wagons, an occasional carriage, and now and then 
an unprotected pedestrian. Only Louise, as she 





122 


A SON OF THE CITY 


passed on the way to the grocery, was exempt from 
assault. 

The shadows of the house tops and the lindens 
spread across the street and shut off gradually the 
flood of sunlight through the attic window. The 
Mosher four-year-old trotted past, just out of range, 
on his way towards home and an early supper. 
John wasted a few ineffectual peas on a pair of 
sparrows who began a pitched battle on one of the 
roof gutters. Sport lagged for a few minutes. 
Then came a great, heavy hulk of a man in overalls, 
with a battered tin pail swinging from his side, 
whose lurching step bespoke a violent temper. Sil- 
vey raised his pea shooter. 

Better leave him alone,” Sid cautioned. 

“ Can’t do anything to us,” John scoffed. “ Doors 
are all locked. And how’s he going to tell our 
mothers when he doesn’t know who we are ? ” 

He filled his mouth anew, took aim with the long 
tin tube, and let fly. Bill seconded him nobly. The 
quarry halted, looked upwards, and received Sid’s 
volley full in his face. 

He’s coming up the steps,” yelled John, who 
was watching the effect of the attack. Jiggers, fel- 
lows, he’s coming up the steps.” 

They turned to fly to safety. But where was a 
haven of refuge to be found? They could hear his 
angry footsteps tramping up and down on the porch. 

‘‘Were those front windows locked?” Sid asked. 


THE SECRET CODE OF THE “TIGERS 


123 


John shrugged his shoulders miserably. An 
angry pounding echoed through the deserted hall 
and bare, cheerless rooms. They stole silently down 
to the second floor. 

“ There’s more closets to hide in, here,” said John 
hopefully. He glanced from a rear window to the 
little pantry gable which stood but a story’s height 
from the back yard. ‘Hf he gets in, we can climb 
out and drop. It won’t hurt much.” 

Their enemy tried the door again. Once a win- 
dow rattled ominously. Sid’s face regained a little 
of its color. ‘‘ They were locked after all. Jiggers, 
there he is around the back ! ” 

They drew hastily away from the opening as a 
purple, distorted face glared up into theirs. A 
moment later, he was kicking at the back door. 

“ That’s bolted, too,” said Silvey thankfully. “ I 
guess we’re safe.” 

At last he left and went around to the front. 
They listened for a second attack from that quarter. 
Not a sound in the house, save the dripping of a 
leaky faucet in the bathroom. 

“ Come on, fellows.” John led the way to the 
stairs. “We’ll open the back door and run like 
everything! ” 

The rapidly deepening dusk cast weird shadows 
through the empty rooms as they tiptoed tensely to 
the first floor. Once Sid imagined that he saw the 
fat man hiding in a nook in the hall where the eve- 


124 


A SON OF THE CITY 


ning gloom lay deepest, and they raised eery echoes 
through the house in their panic-stricken flight back 
to the top of the stairway. Past the fearsome corner 
again, through the stuffy kitchen where a ray of gas- 
light from the next house fell upon the tall, cylin- 
drical water boiler and gave them a second fright, 
and out into the blessed freedom of the back yard. 
There they broke for the railroad tracks and home. 

Mr. Fletcher had already arrived from the office, 
and was in the kitchen, talking, as Mrs. Fletcher 
prepared supper. That meant that it was long after 
six, and John was under strict orders to report upon 
his immediate arrival from school ! But as he came 
in, still panting, the shining rod caught her eye, and 
his sin of omission was forgotten. 

“Pea shooter! Give it here, John. One night 
of Halloween pranks is enough, let alone a whole 
week of it.” 

He surrendered the weapon reluctantly. “Now 
mind,” she added as the bit of tin was dropped into 
the top drawer of the kitchen bureau, “you’re not 
to buy another one, either.” 

Mothers were peculiarly unsympathetic about pre- 
mature pranks; take Fourth of July, no matter how 
many firecrackers a fellow owned, he had to sneak 
off to the big lot to light them if he wanted to cele- 
brate on even the day before. 

So there was little left to do but look longingly 
forward to the great night. On Monday, as he 


THE SECRET CODE OF THE “ TIGERS 


125 


dressed, John found himself repeating, ‘‘ Only four 
more days.” His last thought on Tuesday was, 
“That makes just three.” Thursday afternoon at 
school, as he chanted a silent refrain, “ Day after 
tomorrow’s Halloween, day after tomorrow’s Hal- 
loween,” the boy in the seat just behind tapped him 
stealthily on the shoulder and passed over a bit of 
folded paper. 

He glanced up at Miss Brown. She was filling 
out the monthly report cards and was not likely to 
detect him, but he held the note underneath his 
desk as he opened it, nevertheless. It was from 
Silvey and ran in nearly illegible figures : 

17-12-19-13. 14-22-22-7 26-7 7-19-22 8-19-26-24-16 

26-21-7-22-9 8-24-19-1 2- 1 2-1 5 7-12-23-26-2 26-15-15 
7-19-22 7-18-20-22-9^ 7-19-22-9-22. 25-18-15-15. 

He ran his hand back of the untidy jumble of 
school books and pads and drew out an oft creased, 
finger marked sheet, the secret code of the 
“Tigers 

ABCDEFGH I JKLMNOPQRS 
26 25 24 23 22 21 20 19 18 17 16 15 14 13 12 II 10 9 8 

T U V W X Y Z 
7654321 

He began deciphering the message with a concen- 
tration never meted out to his school work. Five 
minutes of effort resulted in : 

John. Meet at the shack after school today all the 
Tigers there. Bill. 


126 


A SON OF THE CITY 


He caught Silvey’s gaze upon him and nodded 
to show that he had received the note. The pair 
would have met on the way home from school, any- 
way, but what was the use of a secret code unless it 
was used at every possible opportunity? 

The shack was a rickety, frame affair, built dur- 
ing the long summer vacation when time hung heavy 
on the boys’ hands, and the tribal desire for a 
stronghold waxed too strong to be denied. Three 
of the walls were formed of odd planks scavenged 
from neighboring woodpiles and fences, eked 
out, here and there, with a few pantry shelves taken 
from vacant houses. The fourth was nothing but 
the picket fence, but as Silvey expressed it when 
viewing their handiwork, ‘‘It doesn’t rain much 
from the north, anyway.” Door for the low en- 
trance there was not, and the roof, whose shingles 
were purchased by an arduously earned half-dol- 
lar, became a veritable sieve when the raindrops 
were pounded through by a driving gale from the 
lake. 

The furnishings consisted of a chair, which had 
long since parted with its back, and a small, shaky 
desk which had in some way survived the interval 
between its Christmas presentation and the fall 
school term. In the one drawer were kept the 
original of the “Tigers’” secret code, a twenty-five 
cent rubber stamp outfit which had been used to 
print the set of membership rules, beginning, “ i. 


THE SECRET CODE OF THE “TIGERS 


127 


No swearing/’ and two sadly battered, springless, 
and rusty revolvers. Where they had originated, 
no one could remember, but there they lay, unsus- 
pected by parental authorities, to be used as a possi- 
ble defense against the incursions of the “Jefferson 
Toughs,” who ruled the district to the immediate 
north, or to be dragged forth, as in the present case, 
to lend an air of solemnity to the many plots 
hatched between the four cramped walls. 

Red Brown descended the side steps into the yard, 
in answer to the summons of the clan, and found 
John in his role of master-at-arms, strutting back 
and forth before the doorway. Silvey, as befitted 
the holder of the exalted office of president, was sit- 
ting inside on the crippled chair. John whipped the 
more formidable of the two weapons from his back 
pocket and pointed it at the breast of the intruder. 

“ Halt ! ” Brown obeyed. 

“ Who goes there? ” The formula had been bor- 
rowed from a thrilling Civil War story. 

“Friend,” came the prompt reply. 

“Advance, friend, and give the countersign.” 

Red opened his mouth doubtfully, then hesitated. 

“ Hurry up.” 

“ Fve forgotten it.” 

“Aw, think — hard/' 

John jabbed the muzzle of the revolver into his 
ribs with a steadily increasing pressure. Brown 
thought — hard. Finally he broke out, 


128 


A SON OF THE CITY 


‘‘ It’s easy enough for you to remember. You 
made it up.” 

Which was true, for the master-at-arms, who was 
also the secretary, had drafted the rules and was 
responsible for the initiation ceremonies and pass- 
words of the organization. 

“ Go on. ni help you.” 

“ Can’t,” hopelessly. It’s clean out of my head.” 

‘‘ Have to stay away from the meeting, then.” 

“Aw, John, quit your fooling. It doesn’t mat- 
ter.” 

“ Here’s the start. ‘Oppy.’ ” 

“Oppy-” 

“What’s the rest of it?” 

“ ’Nother ‘Oppy,’ wasn’t there ? ” 

“ No, it was ‘Oppy-poppy — ’ ” 

“ ‘Oppy-poppy — 

“ ‘Oppy-poppy-oppy-nox.’ Let’s hear you say it 
all.” 

Red repeated it triumphantly. 

“Right. Pass friend to the meeting of the 
‘Tigers.’ ” 

All the other members had trouble with the 
tongue twister. Either they left out the distinguish- 
ing “p” in the third syllable, or forgot the final 
“oppy” and had to have their memories refreshed 
in much the same manner as that of the first arrival. 
This was precisely what John had intended. What 
was the use of being both secretary and master-at- 


THE SECRET CODE OF THE “ TIGERS 


129 


arms of a club if you couldn’t have some fun at the 
expense of your fellow members? 

Inside, Silvey’s glance took in the prostrate fig- 
ures of Sid, Red Brown, and Perry Alford, who 
were packed so closely together in the enclosure that 
they could scarcely move, then roamed listlessly past 
John with his insignia of office, out to the sunlit 
fence and railroad tracks. Red yawned wearily. 

Hurry up and do something, Sil.” 

“Where’s Skinny?” asked the president. 

“Down town with Mrs. Mosher,” Sid volun- 
teered. “ She wanted him to help her carry pack- 
ages home.” 

“Gee,” commented Perry, sympathetically. “If 
I had her for a mother, I’d run away. Honest, I 
would ! ” 

“ And the Harrison kids ? ” 

“ Both sick in bed. Too many pork chops again.” 

“Master-at-arms and secretary,” Silvey raised 
his voice. “ Come on in.” 

John squatted in the doorway and gazed mean- 
ingly at his superior. They had walked home from 
school together that afternoon, and instructions 
upon the proper way of opening a meeting had been 
profuse. Silvey grew palpably nervous. 

“ This here meeting,” he blurted at last. 

“ That isn’t the way I told you.” John shook the 
revolver in disapproval. “Meeting will now come 
to order.” 


130 


A SON OF THE CITY 


“ Meeting will now come to order,” Silvey re- 
peated mechanically. “ Secretary call the roll.” 

John snapped his fingers in disgust. He had been 
so busy looking after Silvey’s duties that he’d for- 
gotten his own. There was an interchange of 
glances between the two before the president spoke 
up scornfully, 

“We’ll have to let that go. Who’ll be in the 
gang this year?” 

Each member present raised a hand. The two 
leaders in the affair beamed. Everything augured 
for a successful night of sport. 

“What’ll we do?” 

“Let’s go outside where there’s room,” J 
Sid suggested. “ My leg’s gone to sleep.” 


“ Now,” said John a few minutes 
later, as the five boys stretched them- 
selves out on the soft grass beside 
the shack, “there’s the garbage 
cans on the flats’ back porches. 
They’re never taken in on Hal 
loween.” /% M 




THE SECRET CODE OF THE “ TIGERS 


131 


Silvey nodded. '' ’Member the chase the janitor 
gave us last year before we had half of ’em spilled ? ” 

‘‘ That was because we started at the bottom and 
worked up,” explained the master strategist. ‘‘ This 
time we’ll begin at the top and spill ’em out as we 
go down. We’ll be off before the janitor learns 
about it.” 

Red chewed on a blade of grass thoughtfully. 
‘‘Leave milk bottles alone this time. ’Specially 
old lady Boyer’s.” 

The members nodded approval. On the Hallow- 
een preceding, Sid had discovered a solitary con- 
tainer on a window near the flat entrance and 
dashed it to the cement walk amid exultant yells. 
Hardly had the noise subsided when a wrinkled, 
gray-haired head made a distracted appearance at 
the opening, with a cry of, “I want my milk! I 
want my milk ! ” Returning a moment later from 
panic-stricken flight, the full meaning of the act 
dawned upon the boys and remorse overcame them. 
A hasty search for coin of the realm, a moment 
of consultation, and Silvey, boosted high on his 
comrades’ shoulders, had rapped on the window 
ledge. “It ain’t much, ma’am, but it’s all we got, 
and we didn’t know the bottle was yours,” he had 
murmured; and, all unwitting of the sardonic hu- 
mor of the act, had passed in a check good for a 
drink at a near-by saloon. 

There were moments of reflective silence. “ Isn’t 


132 


A SON OF THE CITY 


there something new we can do this year?” Silvey 
appealed to his fellow members. “Garbage cans 
and doormats and ringing electric bells are fun, but 
isn’t there a trick we’ve never worked before?” 

“Get some grease and spread it over a porch 
before you ring the bell,” suggested Sid. “ My big 
brother, who’s away at college, used to do it. Told 
me so, himself.” 

“I tried that once,” Red broke in scornfully. 
“ Nearly broke my back getting away. Besides 
the fellow never steps where he ought to.” 

John spat with sudden deliberation at a chip of 
wood on the turf. “Who can get a lot of tomato 
cans without any holes in them?” 

Silvey mentioned a city dump just north of the 
park, where cans of all sizes and conditions were 
to be found. His chum nodded approvingly. 

“ Sid, you and Perry go over there Saturday 
morning and bring back as many middling-sized 
ones as you can carry. You other fellows cut up 
pieces of string about as long as you are.” 

“S’posing the trick don’t work after all that 
trouble?” asked Sid irritably. John was always 
giving him jobs to do. 

“ I’ll bring a hose key Halloween night,” went on 
John, ignoring the interruption. “ We’ll tie a string 
to a tin, fill it up with water from the hose pipe 
on the front lawn, and tie it to the doorknob. Door 
jerks open when the bell rings — you know how 


THE SECRET CODE OF THE “ TIGERS 


133 


mad a fellow is then — and the water goes flying 
into the hall, ker-splash ! Bet you that’ll make some 
fun!” 

The others regarded the inventor in silent ad- 
miration. “How about the cop?” asked one of 
them finally. 

“Never got mad last year, did he? He’s all 
right. Besides, he’s too fat to run very fast.” 

The back door in the Silvey home squeaked dis- 
turbingly as Mrs. Silvey appeared. A dusting cap 
was jammed determinedly over one eye, and in one 
hand was a broom. 

“ Bill, you come in here right away. I want you 
to help me move the hall rug.” 

Silvey drawled a response. “Jes’ wait until we 
get through talking. It won’t be a minute.” He 
turned to the rest of the “Tigers.” “Everybody 
got pea shooters ? ” They had, or would have before 
the eventful day arrived. 

“ I bought a peachy false-face,” Perry boasted in 
the lull of the conversation which followed. “You 
ought to see it; looks just like a circus clown.” 

“ Leave it at home,” said John brusquely. “ You 
can’t see out of ’em when you’re running away, 
and they get all sticky, anyway. They’re for kids, 
not for fellows like us.” 

“ Bill ! ” scolded the maternal voice again. “ Come 
in the house this minute, before I tell your pa on 
you when he gets home.” 


134 


A SON OF THE CITY 


There was that final note of exhausted patience 
in Mrs. Silvey’s voice which commanded instant 
obedience. He rose with alacrity. As he mounted 
the steps, the boys still at liberty scampered away 
in the fast gathering dusk for a game of “Run, 
sheep, run,” down the tracks and over the grass 
plots and back yards on the street. 

It was nearly six when John came panting into 
the kitchen. 

“What have you been doing, son?” asked his 
mother as she half turned from the gas stove to 
smile down at him. 

“Oh, talking about Halloween, and what we’re 
going to do, and lots of things. It’s going to be 
peachy.” 

“ Mind, you’re not to destroy property or any- 
thing like that. Otherwise, you’ll have to stay in 
the house Saturday night.” 

He yawned with elaborate carelessness. “Just 
going to blow beans and ring doorbells, same as we 
did last year. Isn’t it supper time? I’m hungry.” 

“We’ll eat as soon as your father gets home, 
son.” She turned to give the creamed potatoes a 
stir lest they stick to the pan. “ Oh, I nearly for- 
got! There’s a letter at your place on the dining- 
room table. It came in the afternoon mail.” 

“For me?” Surprise made his voice rise to a 
funny squeak. “Who from?” 

“ A young lady, I think.” 


THE SECRET CODE OF THE “ TIGERS ” 135 

He dashed into the dining-room and opened the 
envelope with clumsy fingers. On a diminutive 
sheet of note paper, decorated at the top with two 
laughing gnomes, ran an invitation copied from 
some older person’s formula: 

“ Miss Louise Martin requests the pleasure of Mr. 
John Fletcher’s company at a Halloween party to 
be given at her home on Saturday, October 31st, 
from eight to ten o’clock.” 



CHAPTER VII 


HE GOES TO A HALLOWEEN PARTY 

F COURSE, he accepted. The temptation of 
a whole evening in the lady’s company was 
too great. But no sooner had he dropped his reply 
in the corner mail box than he began to consider 
the cost. 

The doormats and porch furniture of the neigh- 
borhood would go unharmed for aught that he 
might do. No raids on the flats’ garbage cans, 
no ringing of doorbells, or raining peas through 
open windows. And only through the vainglorious 
boasting of the gang on Sunday morning would he 
know of the success of his string-and-can trick. 
Shucks ! He was out of it all. 

After breakfast, Mrs. Fletcher glanced at the 
clear sunlight on the house across the road and 
announced that John’s Saturday tasks would be 
suspended in honor of the day. He raced up to 
the Silveys, and found the expedition for cans start- 
ing out under the leadership of his chum. Once 
in the park, the quartette broke into impromptu 
games of tag, dashing over the moist grass, or halt- 
ing to puff lustily that they might watch their 
breaths in the clear, frosty air. Tiring of this as 
136 


HE GOES TO A HALLOWEEN PARTY 


137 


they came to the site of an old exposition bicycle 
race-track, they ran up and down the grass-covered 
sides until Perry reminded them that the morning 
would be over before they knew it, and started on 
a dogtrot for the goal. 

Cans there were in profusion, also a fascinating 
array of wreckage of other nature in this dump, 
which lay just north of the park. John picked up 
a suitable container. 

*^Get ’em like this,” he ordered Perry and Sid. 
‘‘And be sure they don’t leak.” 

As the two walked obediently off, he prowled 
among the debris of his own accord. Silvey raised 
a shout from the water’s edge. 

“ Look-e-e.” He held up a chair minus one leg 
and a back for John’s admiring approval. “ Won’t 
this be great for the shack?” 

Sid and Perry turned and took a few steps toward 
Bill. 

“ Say,” ordered the president and his secretary 
in unison, “ get busy with those cans. What do you 
suppose you came over here for?” 

A little later, John discovered a pair of warped, 
rusty bicycle wheels, and hastened over to Silvey 
with them. 

“Can’t we make a peachy wagon with these if 
we find two more?” he said excitedly. “Bet you 
anything she’ll go faster’n the fastest one on the 
street.” 


138 


A SON OF THE CITY 


Sid came up, his arms filled with tins. ‘‘That’s 
enough,” he blurted. “If you want any more, 
you can get ’em yourselves.” He looked down 
sullenly at his rust-spotted waist. “Always the 
way. We do the work and you come along and 
boss.” 

“Well,” retorted John magnificently as Perry 
dropped his collection beside Sid’s, “ we didn’t have 
to come at all, did we?” 

They apportioned the rusty objects and the broken 
chair and wheels between them and sauntered slowly 
homewards. It was easily dinner time before the 
street was reached, and the party broke up as soon 
as the booty was deposited in the Silvey back yard. 
John lingered a moment to help Silvey carry the 
junk into the “Tigers’” club house. 

“Gee,” Bill exclaimed as he gazed -at the non- 
descript jumble, “I’ll bet you it’ll be a peachy time 
tonight.” 

John nodded ecstatically. Then a lump caught in 
his throat and held him speechless for a moment. 
After all, he was out of the fun, and he hadn’t 
the heart to tell his chum, either. He turned to 
leave. 

That afternoon the clan gathered again on the 
turf beside the shack and went over the evening’s 
campaign. The new family in the large green house 
across the road still had a big swing suspended from 
the veranda ceiling. If they didn’t remove it, the 


HE GOES TO A HALLOWEEN PARTY 


139 


boys intended to. Sid DuPree reported that the 
gate on Otton’s back fence could be lifted from its 
hinges very easily. It would be great fun to replace 
the bit of porch furniture with it. As for door- 
mats, the preoccupied neighborhood doctor had left 
his out last Halloween, and could be depended on 
to do it again; also, there were the apartment en- 
trances, each with a heavy rubber mat in front of 
the stone steps. As for the can-and-string trick, 
the frame dwelling where the fat little tailor lived 
was marked for the experiment, as were a half 
dozen others. 

“ Gee,” chuckled Silvey, “ don’t you wish it was 
dark now?” 

John fingered his pea shooter wistfully. 

At last the welcome dusk blotted out the long 
shadows on the railroad tracks and the “Tigers” 
filed stealthily out of the yard to commence the 
skirmishing before supper, which always came as 
a prelude to the more important evening campaign. 
They darted up and down steps, rang doorbells, 
and raised eery cat-calls which echoed between 
the houses, and pelted pedestrians to their hearts’ 
content. 

Presently the door of the big green house swung 
open and threw a shaft of golden light across the 
leaf-strewn macadam, over against the Alford 
dwelling, which stood opposite. Four white-sheeted 
figures danced down the steps and paraded on the 


140 


A SON OF THE CITY 


walk in front of the home lot, tooting horns and 
performing antics in a manner which no set of self- 
respecting ghosts ever dreamed of. 

*‘Her kids,” John snapped scornfully. ‘‘’Mem- 
ber how she chased us out of the street last Satur- 
day because we were making too much noise with 
our tops ? Come on ! ” 

They divided silently into two parties. The one 
slipped across the road on tiptoe and hugged the 
shadows of the houses as they advanced, halting 
finally under the shelter of an adjacent porch. The 
other walked boldly some distance down the walk on 
the far side of the street, crossed over, also, and 
executed a similar maneuver. 

Suddenly a pea caught the biggest of the four 
apparitions on the nose and caused him to drop his 
horn to the sidewalk. As he stooped to pick it up, 
a volley sent his younger brothers and sister scur- 
rying porchward, amid cries of “ Mamma ! Mamma ! 
Mamma!” The “Tigers” yelled gleefully. John 
forgot himself so far as to dance incautiously into 
the path of light. Then from the shadows of the 
porch swing — that same swing which was to trans- 
port itself mysteriously far down the street in the 
evening — emerged the tall, angular figure which 
had driven them away that other Saturday. 

‘"Jiggers!” came the shout of warning. 

“ John Fletcher ! ” That doughty leader retreated 
to the shelter of the shadows. “ I’ll telephone your 


HE GOES TO A HALLOWEEN PARTY 


141 


mother this minute. Such a lot of bullies I’ve 
never seen before in my life!” 

The boys were in for it. Nevertheless, they lis- 
tened to the prolonged tirade with suppressed 
amusement. Its conclusion was an order to the 
quartette to go down on the walk again. 

‘‘They won’t touch a hair of your heads now,” 
she boasted unwisely. 

Again came the stinging volleys on the sheeted 
figures. A few of the peas flew by chance, or other- 
wise, in the direction of the protectress, herself. 

“ Come into the house this minute,” she called to 
her brood. “I’ll fix ’em.” 

The door slammed angrily. Through a front 
window, the boys could see her at the telephone in 
the lighted hallway. They redoubled the bombard- 
ment of the house in defiance. 

Across the street a door creaked. Mrs. Alford’s 
voice carried to where the excited little group stood. 

“ Per-e-e-e, it’s nearly seven. Supper is ready. 
Come in and get washed right away I ” 

The “Tigers” gasped and dispersed quickly. 
Half-past six was the deadline for the evening meal 
with most of them, and parental scoldings were in 
order. 

“See you at eight,” Silvey called as he turned 
north. 

John stopped short. Hang that party! 

“ I w-won’t be with the gang,” he quavered. 


142 


A SON OF THE CITY 


'‘What?’' Bill could scarcely believe his ears. 
John explained haltingly. 

“That kid! I knew she’d make trouble.” 

The murder was out; the worst was over with. 
But it would never do to let his chum think that he 
regretted the choice. 

“ Oh, I don’t know.” John gathered courage and 
glibness as he went on. “ Saw two ice cream freez- 
ers going in the back way this afternoon, and Jim- 
iny, Silvey, her mother’s some cook. Louise says 
[he hadn’t laid eyes on that lady since Friday] 
she’s just baked four chocolate layer cakes with 
nuts and candies in the frosting. And there’s lots 
of other things. Now, don’t you wish you were 
me?” 

Silvey shrugged his shoulders and admitted that 
the entertainment had its alluring side. 

“Chocolate cake,” he repeated. “Just think, all 
you can eat.” 

There was an envious silence. 

“ Strawberry ice cream. Three helpings to a fel- 
low; and I’ll have more, ’cause I wouldn’t let you 
throw cucumbers at Louise.” 

His chum’s face grew wistful. 

“S’long,” said John exuberantly. He had not 
only converted the scoffer, but he now found that 
the gang’s plans for the evening no longer held a 
charm for him. What a peach of a time he would 
have at the Martins’ ! 


HE GOES TO A HALLOWEEN PARTY 


143 


Mrs. Fletcher greeted him with a suppressed smile 
as he came in. 

Mrs. Riley telephoned,” she began reprovingly. 

“ Old sorehead ! ” he exclaimed. Didn’t hurt 
’em any.’^ 

The maternal smile broadened. There was little 
sympathy between that quarrelsome lady and the 
other mothers of the street, anyway. “ But you 
shouldn’t torment little children like that, son. It 
isn’t manly.” 

John murmured a few sheepish words under his 
breath, and asked tactfully if supper were ready. 

“Not quite. Why?” 

“Have you forgotten the party?” 

She shook her head. “You’ll find your blue 
serge suit all cleaned and waiting for you on your 
bed. But John, dear, do be a little more careful 
next time you eat candy. I had a terrible time 
with those spots.” 

After supper, he ran up to his room. There lay 
the suit, true evidence of his mother’s thoughtful 
kindness. As he drew off his school knickerbockers, 
he noticed that his stockings had sagged, small-boy 
fashion, and formed a little roll of cloth just above 
his shoe tops. He pulled them up. How on earth 
had all that mud gotten there ? In a moment he was 
at the head of the stairs, shouting, “ Mother, Mother, 
Moth-a-a-a-r ! Where are some clean stockings?” 
and went off to her room in search of them. His 


144 


A SON OF THE CITY 


boots, too, were dusty and scratched ; how long was 
it since he had blackened them? 

A five-minute session with the shoe-shining out- 
fit, heretofore despised as a useless nuisance, made 
them glisten as did the kitchen stove after that Sat- 
urday polishing task had been completed. Before 
him stood the washstand with its cold marble basin, 
the soap trays, washrags, toothbrushes, and other 
instruments of torture. He turned on the water 
and considered a moment as to just how far he 
should extend the waterline. Still, he was going 
to a party, her party, and his appearance must be 
beyond reproach. So he soaped his face vigorously 
and ran his wet hands around to the back of his 
neck. Then he surveyed as much of the result 
of his labors as he could see with a new satisfac- 
tion. 

He slipped into his little wash blouse hastily. The 
alarm clock indicated fifteen minutes of the hour 
and no time was to be lost. But which of his four 
ties should he wear? His blue one was wrinkled 
because it had lain beneath the bed for over a week 
before he had resurrected it. The tan-and-black 
striped one given him by his uncle was in equally 
bad condition. And Louise had said she hated 
green. After all, his brilliant crimson four-in-hand 
was the nicest. It contrasted with his dark suit the 
best, anyway. 

He presented himself a sheepishly smiling little 


HE GOES TO A HALLOWEEN PARTY 


145 


figure with neatly parted hair, for his mother’s 
inspection. She looked up with a smile. 

“If it isn’t our little John! And so clean that I 
scarcely know him. Come here and let me look at 
your ears.” 

They were immaculate ! Mrs. Fletcher exchanged 
a glance of mock surprise with her husband. “ It’s 
the first time that’s happened since he was old 
enough to wash himself.” 

John, junior, seized his hat and slammed the door 
as he sprang down the front steps. Why did 
grown-ups always carry on so ? There was nothing 
unusual in washing one’s ears, was there? 

He stopped across the street from the building 
to watch for a moment. The Martin parlor on 
the second floor was ablaze with light. Occasionally 
an adult moved now and then within range of the 
windows as she shifted chairs to and fro. A boy 
from Southern Avenue, with whom he had a speak- 
ing acquaintance, walked up and into the entrance 
with an air of unnatural gravity. John could see 
him give his tie a twitch as he rang the front bell. 
A brougham drove up and a little girl encased in 
innumerable fluffy wraps was escorted up the steps 
by her mother. More girls followed from time to 
time. Some skipped merrily up to the door ; others 
sauntered more slowly, tittering excitedly as they 
went along. John decided that it was time to go in. 

Up the heavily carpeted stairway, with its 


146 


A SON OF THE CITY 


ornately panelled wainscoting and brown wallpaper, 
a half turn to the right, and the goal of the evening 
lay before him. The stout woman whom he had 
seen silhouetted in the window greeted him with a 
gracious smile. 

“ So this is the John Fletcher of whom Louise 
is always talking ! ” 

A maid, subsidized for the evening, took his hat 
and coat away to some mysterious recess. Mrs. 
Martin led him into the parlor, lighted to a soft 
glow by deftly shaded electric bulbs. 

‘‘Now let me introduce you,” she said. “This 
is Martha Gill.” He bowed awkwardly to the lady 
of the carriage. “And this, Ella Black.” So it 
went, all down the smiling, giggling circle, as he 
promptly forgot each name in the presence of a new 
beauty. 

He joined the boys with a sigh of relief. They 
stood in an awkward group near the piano, and 
grinned and poked each other furtively in the ribs, 
and made mocking allusions to half-known juvenile 
love affairs until Mrs. Martin reentered with 
Louise. 

The little girl had never appeared so daintily 
bewitching to John; no, not even on that memorable 
first day at school. Her long, graceful curls were 
caught in a big, blue silk bow which matched her 
dress, and her eyes were a-dance with the excite- 
ment of her first party. She greeted the company 


HE GOES TO A HALLOWEEN PARTY 


147 


with a shy, quick smile and sat down in the chair 
nearest her exultant worshiper. A constrained 
silence took possessiqn of the little gathering again. 

If the children were to enjoy themselves at all, 
something must be done to put them at their ease. 
Mrs. Martin clapped her hands loudly. 

‘'Who likes ‘Musical chairs’?” she asked. 

The little girls applauded vociferously. The boys, 
as became members of the more reserved sex, 
nodded condescendingly. While not as exciting as 
wrestling, or “Run, sheep, run,” the game would 
pass the time away. In a moment they were sent 
flying to the different rooms in the flat after straight 
chairs of all sizes and descriptions, while Mrs. 
Martin supervised the formation of the long line 
which extended into the hall. 

“ Now,” said she, as she stepped over to the piano, 
“is there anyone who doesn’t know how to play 
this game?” 

No fear of kill-joy amateurs with “Musical 
chairs.” The children had become experts at the 
pastime through other parties innumerable. She 
seated herself at the instrument and ran her fingers 
over the keys. 

Slowly the procession started. Little girls lin- 
gered as long as possible by each inviting seat. 
Boys scurried past the chairs facing in the opposite 
direction, or slid around the treacherous ends lest 
they be caught. Still the waltz strains swung on- 


148 


A SON OF THE CITY 


ward until they seemed eternal to the anxious 
players. Then a false note, another, a pause, and 
a wild scramble for safety. Bashful maidens sat 
on trousered knees and scrambled up after still 
vacant places. Other players squabbled for the 
possession of contested chairs. At last the babel 
died away, and another cry arose: 

‘‘Johnny, Johnny, Johnny Fletcher’s out of it.” 

It was always the way ; he was ever too reluctant 
to dispossess a girl of a nearly won prize to be a 
success at the game. But he took up a position 
beside the pianist and watched with amused inter- 
est. It was really just as good fun as being a 
participant. 

Gradually all were eliminated save the Southern 
Avenue boy and Louise. The music began again 
under Mrs. Martin’s nimble fingers, and swelled in 
volume like the notes of a church organ. Then it 
dragged and paused just long enough to send Louise 
flying to the seat before it picked up the fateful 
melody. Suddenly, without hint of a finish in the 
throbbing, .rapidly beating march, there came the 
end. Louise found herself standing with the high- 
wooden back toward her, while the Southern Ave- 
nue contestant yelled triumphantly from his throne. 

“Shucks!” said John in disgust. “Why didn’t 
he let her have it? I would.” 

Next came “A tisket, a tasket, a green and yel- 
low basket.” The fun grew fast and furious. No 


HE GOES TO A HALLOWEEN PARTY 


149 


standing aloof in a corner of the room for the boys 
now. They enjoyed themselves too well, as each, 
in turn, chased, or was chased by some nimble- 
footed maiden around the circle. There followed 
“Thimble, thimble, who’s got the thimble,” and 
then Mrs. Martin’s even voice: 

“ Perhaps some boy will suggest a game.” 

The winner of “Musical chairs,” emboldened 
by his triumph, called out, “ Kiss the pillow ! ” 

Little shrieks and cries of “Won’t play!” arose 
from some of the girls. Others maintained a coy 
silence. Eventually the whole company joined; 
that is, all save John. He saw no fun in such pas- 
time. What was the use of kneeling on a pillow 
and kissing, for example, homely Ella Black ? 
Other boys might, if they wished. There was but 
one divinity worthy of his homage, and he would 
pay none of it to other maidens. 

So he followed Mrs. Martin into the dining-room, 
to that lady’s great, though secret, merriment, and 
helped her arrange the plates and the spoons and 
napkins for the refreshments which were to follow 
later. The shouts from the parlor rose louder and 
louder. 

Then came a sudden silence. Mrs. Martin turned 
towards the hall. Surely they didn’t need her as- 
sistance again! As she passed the doorway, cries 
of “Post-office,” “let’s play ‘Post-office,’” broke 
forth, and she returned to the table with a satisfied 


150 


A SON OF THE CITY 


smile. Evidently the members of the party v^ere 
furnishing their own amusement with great success. 

Louise, her curls bobbing excitedly, darted into 
the room and seized John by the arm. 

‘‘ Come on,’’ she begged, for she was afraid he 
wasn’t enjoying himself in the lonely dining-room. 
‘‘ Come on, Johnny. Please ! ” 

It was his lady who commanded, so he obeyed. 
They had drawn a green portiere across the cur- 
tain pole in the doorway until the little alcove with 
the bookcase was shut off from the larger room 
for all practical intents and purposes. Jimmy, the 
Southern Avenue boy, waxing more and more mas- 
terful, had appointed himself postmaster, and 
strutted beside the narrow opening which remained. 
And to hold that position in a game of ‘‘ Post-office ” 
is no slight thing. Not only is the postmaster the 
sole witness of all that transpires behind the secre- 
tive curtain, but he is privileged to turn over the 
exalted office to a temporary substitute and hale 
the lady of his heart forward, if he so desires. 

There was no lack of mail. Hardly had the 
window been declared open than the postmaster’s 
chum stepped up and, after a moment of whis- 
pered conversation, disappeared behind the portiere. 
Called the master of ceremonies in stentorian tones : 

^‘Two packages and three letters for Martha 
Gill!” 

Martha Gill shook her head. Cries of “Go 


HE GOES TO A HALLOWEEN PARTY 


151 


ahead” arose from the boys, while the girls tit- 
tered at her embarrassment. At last she gathered 
up courage and darted past the sentinel. John 
stared in amazement. Two packages and three 
letters — two hugs and three kisses — what was 
there in that overdressed little doll to merit such 
favor ? 

Correspondence became fast and furious. Event- 
ually the postmaster called John forward and whis- 
pered a name in his ear before he went into the 
alcove. His appointee, concealing his astonishment 
as best he could, called out, “Ella Black, Ella Black ; 
four letters for Ella Black ! ” at the top of his lungs. 
But for that much-despised young lady to be so 
honored by the social lion of the evening was more 
than he could comprehend. 

As the postmaster resumed his duties, a voice 
cried, “Johnny, it’s your turn. You haven’t sent 
any mail yet.” 

John flushed and shook his head. Tormenting 
whispers of “ ’Fraid cat! ’Fraid cat!” carried to 
where he stood, and some imp of mischief began 
that scornful chant: 

C’ardy, c’ardy, custard, 

Eatin’ bread an’ mustard ! 

He clenched his fists. If it must be, he’d show 
them he was no coward! A moment later, as he 
stood tensely in the alcove, came the postmaster’s 


152 


A SON OF THE CITY 


A second 
helping 
of ice cream. 


cry of ^‘One letter for Louise Martin/' and the 
green curtain swung aside to admit her. 

She returned from the sanctum composedly. He 
waited a moment that they might not reappear 
together, and came out with 
eyes shining and heart 
a-beat. 

He had kissed her! 

He had kissed her! 

The entrance of 
Mrs. Martin and the 
maid, the one bearing 
heaping dishes of ice 
cream, and the other, 
as he had unwittingly 
prophesied, a luscious, 
heavily-frosted choco- 
late cake, brought him down to 
more mundane thoughts with 
alacrity. Indeed, he devoted 
himself to his portion with such earnestness J ''] 
that he was able to finish and place his empty plate 
innocently under his chair, and wait until his plight 
caught the servant’s eye. 

‘‘Why, haven’t you had any, little boy?” 

He shook his head mournfully. 

“How did Mrs. Martin ever come to skip you? 
I’ll bring you some right away ! ” 

When she reappeared, he winked heartily at his 



HE GOES TO A HALLOWEEN PARTY 


153 


amazed companions and settled to the second help- 
ing of ice cream. 

At last the party came to an end, as all such joy- 
ous occasions must, and he found himself on the 
sidewalk, looking up once more at the now darkened 
parlor. Far up the street came the hooting and 
jeering of a gang — possibly his own — although 
the voices seemed older and strange, and the gate of 
the house next the apartment building had disap- 
peared, leaving empty hinges as mute testimony 
that some band of witches had done their work 
thoroughly and well. 

In response to his prolonged ring and joyous 
kicks on the home door, Mrs. Fletcher let him in. 
‘‘ Don’t pound so hard, son,” she cautioned. “ We’re 
not deaf.” 

Might a’ thought it was some Halloween gang 
if I didn’t,” he defended himself as he threw his 
hat on the nearest chair. 

Have a good time ? ” she queried. 

“ Did I ? ” The earnestness of his voice left 
little doubt as to his sentiments. ‘‘Did I? You 
just bet I did!” 

The family always slept late on Sunday morning, 
but at that, John, worn out by the excitement of 
the preceding evening, stirred drowsily when his 
father appeared in the doorway. 

“Come on, John; time to get up.” 

“Yes, dad,” gazing at him with lackluster eyes. 


154 


A SON OF THE CITY 


As Mr. Fletcher left, he turned his face promptly 
toward the wall and dropped off to sleep again. 

“John!’’ It was his mother’s voice this time. 

“Uhu.” 

“ Why didn’t you get up when your father called 
you? ” 

“ Aw, let me alone. I don’t want any breakfast. 
Honest, I don’t.” 

“Nonsense! You can take a nap in the after- 
noon if you want. Come on. I won’t go down 
stairs until I see you up.” 

He might as well, then. Mrs. Fletcher was pretty 
well versed in his tricks, thanks to long years of 
experience, and there was little chance of further 
delay. So John sat up and dangled his legs over 
the side of the bed, while he rubbed his sleep-laden 
eyes with his fists. 

“Need a wet washrag?” 

No. He was wide awake now. He listened to 
her steps on the stairs, and to the opening of the 
front door as his father brought in the morning 
paper. Then he fingered one stocking abstractedly. 

Half an hour later, prompted by Mrs. Fletcher’s 
remonstrances, her husband came up and found the 
boy staring with unseeing eyes far over the rail- 
road tracks into the park. In his hand was the 
same stocking which he had picked up so many 
minutes before. 

At last he appeared in the dining-room, to find 


HE GOES TO A HALLOWEEN PARTY 


155 


that his father and mother had eaten their meal. 
His hair was half brushed, and his face and neck 
untouched by cleansing water (hadn’t they been 
soaped the night before?), but he set to work on 
the nearly cold breakfast with a will. He removed 
his empty grain saucer from the bread and butter 
plate and looked up suddenly. 

Mother,” he said irresolutely. 

“Yes, son?” 

“ Say, Mother — how old does a fellow have to be 
to get married, anyway?” 

His father chortled with merriment. John flushed 
an embarrassed red. His mother restrained a smile 
as she answered : 

“About twenty-one, dear, and lots of people wait 
until they’re older. Why?” 

“Nothing. Does it cost very much?” 

“Cost much?” Mr. Fletcher dropped the Sun- 
day paper to the floor and looked at his son and 
heir attentively. “ Why, I should say it does. You 
ought to have at least a thousand dollars saved 
before you even think of marrying.” 

“John,” cautioned Mrs. Fletcher reprovingly. 
“ Don’t torment the child.” 

“Let’s see,” went on her husband, unheeding. 
“You’re ten now. If you want to marry by the 
time you’re twenty-one, that means you’ll have to 
earn about a hundred dollars a year from now on. 
Better begin right away.” 


156 


A SON OF THE CITY 


“Raise my allowance, will you, dad?” came the 
unexpected retort. “Fm only getting a quarter a 
week now, and Sid DuPree’s father gives him a 
whole dollar.” 

“Young man,” was the grave reply. “If you 
want to support a family, you’ll have to do it of 
your own accord. You and your mother keep me 
busy as it is.” 

“Give me a quarter, then,” the boy persisted. 
“ That’s all I want. Please ! ” 

His father dug into his pockets and brought out 
the desired coin. “The nest-egg for the second 
generation of Fletchers,” he grinned. “ Catch, son.” 

A few minutes later John disappeared in the 
direction of a little stationery and toy shop which 
lay some blocks to the north. But not a word could 
Mr. Fletcher draw from him as to the aim of the 
expedition. He returned with a mysterious pack- 
age which he took up to his room and then sauntered 
out to Silvey’s house. 

A little later his mother, who had gone upstairs 
to dress herself for dinner, came down to the dining- 
room where John, senior, still sat reading. 

“John,” she said. 

“Yes, dear?” with a hasty glance away from the 
news sheet. 

“ Do you know,” her smile was tender, “ there’s a 
big, china pig bank up on that boy’s bureau? I 
believe he’s taken your words in earnest ! ” 


CHAPTER VIII 


WHEREIN HE RESOLVES TO GET MARRIED 

Thursday date for the game with the Jef* 
fersons ” had been selected in early September, 
and there had been a tacit truce between the two 
factions as a result. For three afternoons of that 
first week in November, the ‘‘Tigers’’ sacrificed 
their games of tops and “ Run, sheep, run ” on the 
altar of the football god, and trooped over to the 
big lot as soon as school was dismissed. There, 
Silvey, self-appointed coach of the team, expounded 
the rudiments and the higher attributes of the sport 
as culled from a series of ten-cent hand books, and 
ran the team through . signals and trick formations 
in a way that would have amused a university foot- 
ball coach. 

Louise went down town with her mother, so the 
team was deprived of the support of its feminine 
rooter on the eventful afternoon. They met in front 
of Silvey’s. John boasted the one addition made 
to the equipment of that first practice when he 
appeared with a second-hand pair of shin-guards 
which he had acquired from a boy at school in 
exchange for a dime and an agate shooter. Pres- 
ently Sid appeared with the football, and they 
157 


158 


A SON OF THE CITY 


trooped towards the lot in a compact, determined 
little group. 

As they climbed over the railroad fence on the 
opposite side of the tracks, the Jeffersons,” who 
were as badly equipped as their rivals, greeted them 
defiantly. There was a moment or so of conference 
between Silvey and the Shultz boy before they 
tossed for sides on the field. Then the teams lined 
up, kicked off, and sweated and toiled and wrangled 
through one half of the game without result. To- 
wards the end of the second period, the heavier 
invaders began a slow march over the cinder-strewn 
ground toward their opponents’ goal and victory. 

Onward, onward, inch by inch, first down, five 
(this was the day of unreformed football), second, 
three, third, one yard to gain, while the “Tigers” 
shouted “Ho-o-old ’em! Ho-o-old ’em!” in des- 
peration. On the ten-yard line, indicated by stakes 
driven in the ground at each side of the field, the 
lighter eleven braced for a last stand. As the “ Jef- 
fersons’” youthful quarter attempted to pass the 
ball, Silvey broke through and knocked the pigskin 
from his hands towards John, who grabbed it and 
ran to the other end of the field for the one and 
decisive touchdown of the game. 

“Time,” called Silvey, striving vainly to make 
himself heard above the exultant shouts. “Time, I 
tell you!” Captain Shultz of the “Jeffersons” 
drew out a watch, borrowed from a friend for the 


HE RESOLVES TO GET MARRIED 


159 


occasion, and compared it with the one in Bill’s 
possession. 

The game was over and the Jeffersons ” had 
lost. 

The victors swaggered woodenly around by the ice 
cream soda shop and art stores to the home street. 
No cutting across the tracks for them now; this 
was a march of triumph! The vanquished trailed 
sulkily along, some twenty feet behind, giving vent 
now and then to cat-calls of defiance and disgruntled 
suggestions that the game would have ended differ- 
ently if this or that member had played better. At 
the corner, Silvey turned. 

“We licked you!” he yelled at the top of his 
lungs. “We licked you! We licked you!” 

Shultz raised his voice above the clamor of his 
team. “Just wait until we catch you alone, you’ll 
be sorry ! ” 

John shrugged his shoulders. “We’ll all stick 
together coming home from school. And if they 
catch just one of us, why, we can maul them, too.” 
For Shultz’s declaration meant that the guerrilla 
warfare was in full swing again. 

Sid’s muscles stiffened and his back began to 
ache. Silvey owned a discolored spot over one 
eye where an opponent had tried to disable him 
during a tense moment of the game. John’s shin 
was badly bruised, and Perry Alford had wrenched 
his ankle. The other members had minor hurts. 


160 


A SON OF THE CITY 


Only Red Brown had, by some miracle, come 
through the battle unscathed. 

‘^We won,’' said Silvey happily, as they stopped 
in front of his house. “ Come on, now, all together ! ” 

They broke into the “Tigers’” exultant war cry, 
which is very much the same as that of the football 
team to which you belonged as a boy : 

Sis-boom-bah ! 

Sis-boom-bah ! 

“Tigers,” “Tigers,” 

Rah, rah, rah ! 

Then they left for their several homes, too worn 
out to do anything but rest. 

Up in his room John threw himself on the bed 
with a sigh. His injured leg hurt terribly — but 
they’d won. Pity Louise had missed the defeat of 
the “ Jeffersons.” Why did women folks always 
have to go shopping, anyway? Only spent a lot of 
money on hats and other foolishness. 

He turned over wearily and found the yellow 
pig bank leering at him from the bureau with hun- 
gry, malignant eyes. Where was that apportioned 
two dollars which he was to earn by the end of the 
week? Four days had already elapsed, and the 
beast’s interior was as empty as it had been on the 
toy-shop shelf. Why had he bought those lemon 
drops on Monday? And the marbles and his rub- 
ber spear top? Was there anything left after the 
shin-guard purchase? He sat up on the edge of 


HE RESOLVES TO GET MARRIED 


161 


the bed and rummaged in his pockets. One lonely 
penny remained from his weekly allowance of a 
quarter. 

He dropped the coin into the long slot and shook 
the pig disgustedly. Two dollars could never be 
earned by Saturday night. Not 
even if three lawns were 
to be cut, and a half-dozen 
errands run for the neigh- 
bors. He slammed the t 
china animal back on the 
bureau and went down to 
supper. The lonely copper 
had seemed to make the 
beast sound more hollow 
ever as it rattled against the unglazed interior. 

That night the wind veered to the south, and 
Friday proved to be mild and sunny, save for a 
touch of autumnal haze in the air. But not even 
this freakish return of summer could rouse him 
from the grumpy mood which held over from the 
night before. 

He scanned the front yards on the street as he 
sulked along to school. How slowly grass grew 
in the fall! Not a lawn needed trimming, and as 
for freeing them from leaves, the nearly denuded 
boughs made such operations unnecessary. Coin of 
the realm seemed further away than ever. 

In the afternoon, the haze thickened and hinted 



162 


A SON OF THE CITY 


of rain. As he and Louise sauntered homeward, 
a drop of water spattered on her cheek. Another 
hit him on the nose, and it was but a short time 
before the cement sidewalks were covered with 
rapidly merging mosaics of a darker hue. 

What luck! Dimes and even quarters, quickly 
and easily earned, were within his grasp. He left 
Louise at the apartment entrance and dashed into 
his own front hall in great excitement. 

I’ve got the umbrellas,” he shouted, as he strug- 
gled into his raincoat. ‘‘ I’m going out with them.” 

“Don’t take my good one,” Mrs. Fletcher cau- 
tioned. But he was beyond earshot, best umbrella 
and all, before the words were out of her mouth. 

Down the water-glazed street he ran, its dust 
now laid by the refreshing, pounding torrent, past 
the barrier of the railroad ticket office, thanks to 
the friendly agent, and up the worn steps to the 
station platform. Other boys were there, each with 
two or three umbrellas, who viewed the newcomer 
with disfavor. Ere long, each suburban train from 
town would discharge its quota of daintily dressed 
shoppers, pallid office clerks and stenographers and 
prosperous business men. Not one of them would 
carry protection from the soaking rain, and compe- 
tition between the juvenile vendors threatened to 
become acute. 

A lean, light suburban engine pulled in amid a 
cloud of escaping steam and a hissing of airbrakes. 


HE RESOLVES TO GET MARRIED 


163 


John Spied a tall slender woman in a car doorway 
arranging a paper over her hat, and raced along 
beside the platform until it came to a halt. 

‘‘Umbrella home, lady?” 

She nodded. “To the hotel.” 

Behind her loomed a tall, slightly bowed, black- 
haired lawyer whom John had seen on the long, 
wooden veranda of that substitute for home more 
times than he could count on his ten fingers. He, 
too, took advantage of a rented shelter. Together 
the couple made their way down the dripping steps 
while John followed exultantly. Two at once — 
and the hotel but a scant block and a half away! 
At the broad entrance, they paused. 

“How much do I owe you, little boy?” asked 
the lady, with a smile. 

“ Dime,” was the laconic answer. Another train 
^ ^ // . was due in ten, minutes 

and there was no time 
' y/ to waste. She opened 

^ dainty leather purse, 

' ' , while the lawyer paid 

his debt from a pocket- 
ful of small change. 
Twenty cents at once. 
That was luck. A mo- 
ment later John was 
sprinting back at top 
speed. 



164 


A SON OF THE CITY 


No double fare the next time, but the helpless 
stenographer lived a street farther west, and each 
additional block meant another nickel according to 
the unwritten umbrella tariff. 

‘‘Fifteen cents, madam,” he demanded. 

She retreated discreetly to the shadow of the 
apartment hallway to dive into her stocking bank, 
while he watched two bedraggled sparrows on the 
sidewalk until she reappeared. 

On his return, he found the trains running on 
the five-minute, rush-hour schedule. Each carried 
its revenue of small change for the eager, clamor- 
ing boys. Once, a gray-haired, kindly-eyed man 
gave John a quarter and would receive no change, 
and another time a friend of his mother’s did like- 
wise. But for the most part, ten- and fifteen-cent 
fees were his lot. 

Rifts in the misty clouds to the west appeared, 
which hinted of an end to the rain. Nevertheless, 
he jingled the change in his pocket light-heartedly. 
He had made more in the brief eighty minutes than 
he could cutting the Langley’s lawn, or by other 
juvenile chores which would consume a like time. 
And, if he were fortunate, there was still time for 
another customer before the storm ceased. 

He found her. She was dressed in some rustling 
brown taffeta stuff and carried her hat in a care- 
fully pinned page of newspaper. Her face was 
sunken and lined and rouged to lessen the ravages 


HE RESOLVES TO GET MARRIED 


165 


of age, and her hair was palpably mismatched. 
Moreover, instinct warned that his offer would be 
refused, for she was one of the tall, skinny folks. 
Nevertheless, he approached her. 

“Umbrella home, lady? Can I take you home 
under an umbrella?’’ 

He could. Instantly all criticism of her personal 
appearance vanished. True, she might be trying to 
keep up appearances like the old-maid teacher who 
scolded knowledge into the eighth-grade class, but 
she was willing to spend money for his benefit, and 
that made all the difference in the world. 

Past the hotel they went, and down the five long, 
successive blocks of gray stone university buildings 
which flanked that side of the boulevard. John’s 
spirits rose. His last was to be a quarter customer, 
at the least. Then they turned southward and 
dodged pools of water in the muddy street cross- 
ings and on the walks for another two squares. 
She halted at a grimy, run-down apartment building 
and closed the umbrella. Thirty-five cents! He 
opened his mouth to name the fee, but she inter- 
rupted him. 

“Here’s the umbrella, little boy.” She stepped 
into the stuffy, badly-lighted hallway. “ Thank 
you very much for taking me home.” 

Before he could say a word of protest, the 
weather-beaten oak door swung to in his face and 
the lady fled up the stairs. 


166 


A SON OF THE CITY 


When he had recovered from his surprise, he 
stamped angrily in after her. What should he do ? 
He 'wanted that money. He didn’t care if she had 
disappeared. He’d ring the bell and keep on ring- 
ing it until she answered or the batteries gave out. 
But which bell? The building was four-storied, 
with flats front and rear, and which of the cramped 
apartments did she occupy? And there were doz- 
ens of roomers’ cards over the dusty speaking 
tubes. To find her was impossible. He had been 
tricked, and tricked nicely, and he might as well go 
back. 

When he was a block from the station the rain 
changed to a sudden fine drizzle and halted. The 
umbrella business was ended for the afternoon. 
Nevertheless, he had been fairly successful. If that 
old maid had paid what was due him, the small 
change in his pocket would have totaled a dollar 
and thirty cents. But ninety-five cents wasn’t bad, 
as it was. 

He sauntered in from the dark street a few min- 
utes later and stacked the dripping umbrellas in 
the rack in the hallway. Then he burst into the 
kitchen to tell his mother the news. 

'' What will you do with all that money, son ? ” 

He blinked a moment at the brilliancy of the gas- 
light, and guessed he’d save most of it. At that 
Mrs. Fletcher smiled, and he grinned sheepishly 
back. She had probably guessed the secret. 


HE RESOLVES TO GET MARRIED 


167 


Mothers had uncanny ways of seeing right into 
fellows, and he might as well tell her now. 

“Louise and I are going to be married when Fm 
twenty-one,” he blurted. “ Fm starting to save now, 
and she’s going to get her mother to teach her how 
to cook beefsteaks and keep house.” 

Then he ducked from her amused kisses and ran 
up to his room. Down came the pig bank from 
the resting place on the bureau, and out on the white 
coverlet came the result of his work. Piece by piece 
the money disappeared in the narrow slot, until not 
even a nickel was left for lemon drops at the school 
store. Then he shook the porker with satisfaction. 
It didn’t sound so empty now, and the hungry look 
seemed to have disappeared from the yellow china 
face. The eyes held an expression of sleepy content, 
if an insensate bit of china could do such a thing. 

Ninety-six cents was a good start. But he’d have 
to hustle every minute of Saturday morning. The 
advent of autumn had so discouraged the growth of 
grass on the home street that he would have to 
invade Southern Avenue. Surely he could find 
some sort of a job on that long, well-groomed street. 

After breakfast he sneaked off to drag the lawn- 
mower from its storage place in the basement. The 
rattle and bang of the iron frame against the area 
steps caught Mrs. Fletcher’s alert ear. She raised 
the little side-pantry window and looked out as he 
lifted the implement up on the walk. 


168 


A SON OF THE CITY 


‘7ohn!” 

“Yes, Mother?” A sheepish note crept into his 
voice. “Taking the mpwer out of the basement; 
that’s all.” 

“Where are you going with it?” 

Oh, nowhere in particular. He hoped to earn 
a little money ; that was all. 

“ Is your room picked up ? ” 

“No.” 

“And the front porch has to be hosed off for 
Sunday ; never mind the neighbors until my work’s 
finished, son.” 

Mothers must have forty-’leven pairs of ears 
to catch fellows the way they did. He stopped 
to argue with her, but she shook her head impa- 
tiently. 

“That won’t do a bit of good, John. You’re 
just wasting time when you’re talking this way.” 

She was right. And wasting time meant just so 
many minutes less in which to earn a dollar and 
four cents. He scampered upstairs and pitched the 
book which had lain under the bed since a certain 
clandestine night^reading session into the case. 
Next, his odds and ends of clothing and ties were 
thrown on the closet floor with a prayer that they 
might not be discovered before he made his escape. 
With his bureau top set hastily in order, he reported 
for duty below. Out with the hose-reel and up with 
the nozzle on the porch. A twist of the key, and 


HE RESOLVES TO GET MARRIED 


169 


the water spurted forth while his mother watched 
the procedure in amazement. He was taking five 
minutes for work which consumed twenty-five, 
ordinarily ! 

But when the water splashed against the sun- 
blistered clapboards of the veranda wall, his spurt 
of energy diminished. He adjusted the nozzle until 
the fine spray came from the hose and watched the 
miniature rainbow in the bright sunlight. An ear- 
nest spider was repairing a web up under the eaves 
in anticipation of coming storms, and John shifted 
back to the hard stream to dislodge the industrious 
spinner. The old cat trotted around from the back 
porch and made faces at a squirrel which had 
strayed from the park to enjoy the more munificent 
bounty which the kind-hearted housewives and chil- 
dren on the street offered. He shot the quarrel- 
quelling stream in their direction, and the pair 
scampered away to safety. As yet a good half of 
the porch was untouched by water, and he dropped 
the hose to the floor with the nozzle pointed toward 
the baseboard, while little rivulets trickled over the 
dust-strewn boards until they joined larger streams, 
just as the little black river lines in his school maps 
did. 

There was a sudden, sharp tapping at the window 
which fronted the porch. Mrs. Fletcher’s voice 
jerked him from the clouds of miniature geograph- 
ical research to the realities of his task. 


170 


A SON OF THE CITY 


“John! Half an hour’s gone already. Do get 
the hose reeled up!” 

A few hasty strokes of the broom — his mother’s 
best, taken unknown to her — obliterated all traces 
of the water systems, and the hard spray was 
splashed against the windows just long enough to 
splatter the sashes well. The dirtiest places on the 



before he reeled up the hose. A moment later, with 
the rake over one shoulder, and the lawn mower 
trailing noisily behind him, he set off to find Silvey. 


A noisy whistle in front of his chum’s house 
brought no answer. An ear-splitting clamor of 
“Oh, Silvey-e-e-e ; Oh, Silvey-e-e-e, come on out. 
Come on out ! ” brought his mother to the door. 

“Bill’s gone down town with his father,” she 
said crossly. “Won’t be back until dinner time.” 


HE RESOLVES TO GET MARRIED 


171 


Shucks; everything was going wrong. If 
Silvey wasn’t on hand, he’d have to pitch in 
alone. 

Around the corner he went, the mower still beat- 
ing a noisy tattoo over the pavement, past the big 
new apartment building with flats which actually 
rented for a hundred dollars a month, and down to 
the long row of older houses, erected when land 
was cheap, and set far back from the walk; still on 
past foot after foot of trim grass plots, through 
a mud-puddle in the street which held more water 
than was good for the already rusty blades, and 
across to the opposite sidewalk before he found a 
prospect of employment. 

He swung back the gate and tiptoed up the weath- 
ered steps. The window shades were down and 
the cobwebs hung thick on the porch railings and 
under the eaves. Yet the place was occupied, for 
he had noticed a homeless cat dragging an unsavory 
meal from a well-filled garbage pail at the side. He 
rang the bell once, twice, thrice, before the door 
opened. 

‘'Want the lawn cut?” he asked of the wrinkled, 
tremulous dame who faced him. 

She shook her head, angry at being disturbed. 
He walked down the walk mournfully. 

It was clear that there was no revenue to be 
gained this day. So he turned toward the home 
street and dropped the mower into the area way 


172 


A SON OF THE CITY 


just loudly enough to bring Mrs. Fletcher to the side 
window. 

“That you, son? Run up to the corner and get 
some lamb chops, that’s a good boy.” She tossed 
him a half-dollar. “ And get ready for dinner when 
you come back.” 

He set off thoughtfully, for the problem of earn- 
ing still annoyed him. He hated to fall down on 
the newly made resolution the very first week. 
If it were only winter and a heavy snow falling! 
Then he’d make money quickly enough, but in late 
autumn — why folks wanted to walk to the cor- 
ner for groceries themselves because the tang in 
the clear, snappy weather made the errand enjoy- 
able! 

As the door of the butcher shop closed behind 
him, he saw Shultz, leader of the “ Jeffersons” and 
sworn enemy, tugging at a heavy suitcase as he 
struggled to keep pace with the athletic young lady 
to whom it belonged. 

Why couldn’t he do likewise? Three ten-cent 
suitcase jobs would bring his capital to a dollar 
and twenty- four cents, and that was better than 
nothing. 

As soon as he had eaten, he left the house on the 
trot for the suburban station, where he had seen his 
football rival. He waited in front of the three iron 
turnstiles, now dancing up and down, now watch- 
ing the ants in a hill which was forming between 


HE RESOLVES TO GET MARRIED 


173 



two paving blocks, and now — 7^ 

scanning the thrice reread 
headlines of the papers on the 
unpainted news stand by the 
station entrance. A gentleman 
came with golf sticks bound 
for the park links; there came 
ladies innumerable who had 
been delayed on their shop- 
ping expedition — and still 
no sign of employment. Lo- 
cals came and went, and ex- 
presses followed on twenty-minute runs until 
his memory failed in counting them, before a 
puffy, white-moustached gentleman in tweeds * 
grunted a noisy passage down the platform steps. 

Satchel carried, sir?” 

‘‘How far is it to the hotel.” 

John explained. The traveler should have left 
the train at the station three blocks to the south. 
But it wasn’t so very far, even at that. “ Shall I 
carry it for you ? ” he concluded. 

The man nodded jerkily and paused to light a 
cigarette. As they left, Shultz sauntered up and 
stood aghast at this invasion of his territory. 

“ Hey ! ” he ejaculated finally. 

John held his course, grip in either hand. He was 
a little nervous, but his business rival dared not take 
revenge while his patron was with him. After 


174 


A SON OF THE CITY 


that — well, he guessed he could take care of him- 
self if that '‘tough” — a term of endearment used 
by the "Tigers” — bothered him. 

A lapse of ten minutes found him fingering a 
quarter as he stood on the broad hotel steps. Would 
he go back, when such fees were in prospect? You 
bet. That dirty- faced kid had no mortgage on the 
place. He’d like to see any trouble between them. 
He would call out the " Tigers,” he would! 

Shultz was pacing up and down in front of the 
station when John came up. The expression on his 
face was far from pleasant, and the boy began to 
regret his fit of bravado. But shucks, that tough 
wouldn’t dare do anything. He stopped at the turn- 
stiles once more, and Shultz glared at him angrily. 

" What you trying to do ? ” 

John explained. He wanted to make a little 
pocket money. 

"Well you can’t here. G’wan home before I 
smash your face ! ” 

"Won’t,” stubbornly. "Got just as much right 
as you here.” 

There was a pause. "Well are you going?” 
asked the " Jefferson’s ” captain. 

"No!” 

"I’ll make you.” He advanced, fists doubled. 
They circled around and around on the pavement, 
each looking for an opening through the other’s 
guard. Suddenly the bigger boy lunged forward 


HE RESOLVES TO GET MARRIED 


175 


and his fist went true to the mark — John’s nose. 
They sparred again, now feinting forward, now 
stepping backward, like two young turkey cocks. A 
tall, blue-clad, brass-buttoned figure rounded the 
corner, and Shultz raised the alarm. 

“ Cheese it, the cop ! ” 

They broke for cover, each in the direction of 
home and parental protection, while the guardian 
of the peace stood and laughed at the fleeing 
figures. 

Once well down the street, John pulled up, pant- 
ing, and rubbed his nose. That kid had certainly hit 
it. The organ hurt like the mischief, and felt as if 
it were three sizes too big. He hoped it wouldn’t 
be like that at school, Monday. 

He heard a familiar voice, “ Hello ! ” 

He turned quickly. Louise, and at this, of all 
times ! 

“ What you been doing? ” She looked at his face 
curiously. 

He forced a smile. “ Fight, that’s all.” 

“ Did he hurt you much ? ” 

‘‘Only here.” John pointed to the injured ap- 
pendage and added, “Gee, you ought to see him. 
Black eye, and his lip’s bleeding something fierce ! ” 
His lady must never know that he came out second 
best in the battle. 

Suddenly he turned a-tremble from the reaction 
of his feelings. He wished his feminine playmate 


176 


A SON OF THE CITY 


down town, over in the park, any place where she 
couldn’t talk to him. He wanted to get home, to 
have mother’s gentle hands lay cooling bandages on 
his nose, and his eyes began to fill with tears. For 
in spite of his air of defiance, he had been beaten 
and the knowledge stung him into a poignant long- 
ing for sympathy. 

Louise, with the intuition of her sex, changed the 
subject. 

“ Look what I’ve got,” she held a brown package 
at arm’s length. “ Sugar from the grocer’s. 
Mother’s going to teach me how to bake, this after- 
noon. Want to watch?” 

He nodded gratefully and went with her to the 
flat where that memorable party had been held. In 
the airy kitchen, Mrs. Martin instructed Louise in 
the mysteries of mixing flour, spices, and molasses 
into that sticky mass which composes the dough for 
delicious, old-fashioned gingerbread. John stood 
at the young lady’s side and watched dreamily. 
Just wait until he had that thousand dollars saved 
and could rent a kitchen of his own! 

After the mixture was poured into the pan, the 
two children, spoons in hand, scraped the mixing 
dish of its residue of uncooked delicacy, and decided 
that the effort would prove a huge success. 

“ Wait until it’s baked,” said Louise, “ and you 
can have a piece.” 

John was transported into a seventh heaven of 


HE RESOLVES TO GET MARRIED 


177 


ecstasy, and followed her into the parlor. They 
sat on the floor and played dominoes while the min- 
utes flew past. 

‘‘That’s five games for me,” Louise broke out 
exultantly. John nodded and gazed listlessly 
around the room. On the bottom shelf of the maga- 
zine table was a red and black checkerboard. 

“Let’s play that,” he pointed with one grimy 
finger. 

Louise demurred. “ I don’t know how.” 

“ I’ll teach you,” her victim said eagerly. So she 
did penance for her victories until Mrs. Martin ap- 
peared in the doorway and smiled down at them. 

“Come, kiddies. It’s ready now.” 

They broke for the kitchen in a wild dash, leav- 
ing boards and men on the carpet as they had fin- 
ished with them. 

Half an hour later, John sauntered into the house, 
his hat cocked exultantly over one ear, and his 
mouth redolent of savory spices. He heard voices 
in the dining-room and stuck his head in between 
the portieres. 

“That you, John?” asked his mother. “Where 
on earth have you been?” 

“Up at Louise’s.” His spirits were too high to 
notice the admonitory note in her voice. “ She 
baked a cake all by herself, and when it was done, 
I had a great big piece. And Mother,” his voice 
rose proudly at the memory of that effort, “ it was 


178 


A SON OF THE CITY 


better’ll any ginger cake you ever made in all your 
life!” 

When he had placed his napkin in his ring and 
gone out on the front porch, Mrs. Fletcher looked 
at her husband and her husband smiled back at her. 

The little imp,” she murmured finally. 

But it was the first foretaste of the time when 
another woman should dispossess her of her son’s 
love, and she liked this touch in the childish comedy 
not at all. 




CHAPTER IX 


HE SAVES FOR FOUR ROOMS FURNISHED COMPLETE 



^HE early Sunday church bells roused him to 


a consciousness that the clear autumn sunlight 
was streaming in through the east window. The 
other members of the family were as yet not awake, 
so he stretched lazily and recalled, incident by inci- 
dent, that blissful afternoon with Louise. How 
pretty she had looked when she had opened the oven 
door, and how delighted she had been when he had 
sampled and approved her first gingerbread ! It al- 
most atoned for the defeats at dominoes. 

He rolled over. There stood the pig bank on the 
bureau, staring down at him with an air which said, 
plainly as if spoken, ‘‘John Fletcher, you’re a 
failure. Two dollars was your goal for the week. 
There’s but a dollar and twenty-nine cents in me. 
What are you going to do about it ? ” 

Nor would it allow his conscience to rest during 
the hours which followed. Louise had accepted an 
invitation to feed the squirrels in the park that after- 
noon, so he begged a nickel from his father for pea- 
nuts and rushed in to his mirror to see if his face 
needed washing. There was the four-footed cari- 
cature to insinuate that he might better be thinking 


179 


180 


A SON OF THE CITY 


of means to increase his weekly income, instead 
of squandering money on fat, saucy park squirrels. 

He was beginning to hate the bit of china. Why 
hadn’t he purchased instead a mail-box bank that 
owned no such accusing eyes? 

Not until after supper, when he threw himself 
on the bed to face, for the first time, the problem 
of earning a steady weekly income, did the yellow, 
glazed features cease to trouble him. 

He stared thoughtfully at the flicker of the gas 
rays against the wavy markings in the ceiling paper 
for some minutes. How was a boy to earn money ? 
What were the channels of revenue by which the 
‘‘Jefferson Toughs,” Shultz and his ilk, made piti- 
ful contributions to the family war fund against the 
enemies of fuel, food, and clothing bills? 

Shultz sold papers. Very well, John Fletcher 
would do likewise. If twenty papers were sold 
daily, a weekly revenue of forty-eight cents would 
come from that source. The allowance from his 
father would bring the amount up to, say, seventy- 
five cents. Could he hope for five errands a week 
from the neighbors ? That would make a dollar and 
a quarter. But where, oh, where, was the other 
money to come from? 

In any case, hard, persistent work, man’s work, 
lay before him and it must be done in a man’s way. 
No more tops, marbles, “ Run, sheep, run,” or even 
snow fights! The thousand dollars which meant a 


FOUR ROOMS FURNISHED COMPLETE” 181 


home was to be earned by his twenty-first birthday, 
and such trivialities might delay the achievement of 
that heart’s desire. 

The first test of the resolution came within the 
next twenty-four hours. As the pupils formed in 
line for the afternoon, he fingered a dime in his 
pocket repeatedly, for the coin represented the in- 
vestment for his first newspaper venture. In the 
school yard Silvey darted up to him. 

'‘Oh, John-e-e-e!” 

"Yes,” said John, not greatly enthusiastic over 
the hail. 

" It’s open practice at the university today. Red 
and me are going. It’ll be the biggest game, next 
Saturday, and, Jiminy, you ought to watch the 
quarter-back kick! Come along?” 

John shook his head regretfully. Too well he 
knew the joys which awaited them within the big 
enclosure with its towering bleachers. Hadn’t he 
haunted the gate for just such opportunities, last 
year? Hadn’t Bill and he discovered a hole in the 
fence and laid plans to see one of the early games 
by its aid? And hadn’t an unfeeling freshman 
emptied a bucket of water as he had crawled half 
through the opening? But the dime in his pocket 
was a reminder of last week’s procrastinating 
failure. 

" Can’t,” said he finally. 

"Why?” 


182 


A SON OF THE CITY 


“Got to work — sell papers.” 

Silvey stared, scarcely believing his ears. John 
scuffed the school walk with one sadly abused shoe. 

“ You see,” he went on reflectively, “ Fve got to 
have a thousand dollars by the time Fm twenty- 
one.” 

“What for?” 

“ Get married.” 

“That girl again!” Bill ejaculated scornfully. 
“Aw, come on, Johnny. Just once won’t hurt.” 

“ No,” retorted John firmly. “ Fve got to act like 
a man now. I haven’t any more time for kid fool- 
ishness I ” 

“ Kid foolishness ! ” repeated Silvey in awe-struck 
tones, as his chum turned and walked rapidly away, 
“ kid foolishness ! Gee ! ” 

As for John, he was finding hidden sweets in the 
new vocation. Never had Silvey ’s eyes held such 
astounded respect as they had at that moment. 

Shultz lived in a brown brick, ramshackle tene- 
ment diagonally opposite the apartments in which 
the gang had found shelter that day of the cucumber 
fight. Once, the flats had been advertised as being 
the utmost in modern conveniences, but that had 
been in the days when the park museum was glori- 
fied as an exposition building. Since then, a long 
succession of tenants had scented the dark, badly 
lighted corridors with a variety of garlicky odors, 
and the rentals had been lowered until only the most 


FOUR ROOMS FURNISHED COMPLETE” 183 


necessary repairs could be afforded to keep the build- 
ing in order. So there the block stood, making a 
tawdry front with small, and often-remodeled 
stores, as it waited for one of the numerous small 
fires which were always starting to consume it. 

Shultz was playing on the walk in front of the 
grimy main entrance. It was John’s purpose to 
learn the hour of arrival for the newspaper wagon, 
and whatever other information on news vending 
the boy might be willing to give. His erstwhile 
enemy doubled both fists as he crossed the road. 

'‘Want another bloody nose?” 

John raised an open palm as a token of peace. 
" When’s the wagon drive up ? ” 

The ex-captain of the "Jefferson’s” looked at 
him suspiciously. "What do you want to know 
for?” 

" Sell papers. What do you s’pose ? ” 

" Old man lost his job ? ” There could be but one 
motive for engaging in the paper business according 
to his simple mind. 

John thought a moment. It was all very well to 
tell his chum of the cause for the sudden desire for 
money, but not this boy. The love affair would be 
all over school by morning recess. He nodded, tak- 
ing the easiest way out of the dilemma. 

"Had a fight with his boss,” the would-be mer- 
chant invented boldly, throwing plausibility to the 
winds. " Came home last night, crying like every- 


184 


A SON OF THE CITY 


thing. There isn’t enough to eat, and we have to 
pay the gas bill, so I’m going to work.” 

All enmity vanished instantly. The pair were 
comrades in misfortune, and as such John was to be 
aided in every possible way. 

‘^Joe’ll be around in half an hour,” Shultz ex- 
plained generously. ‘‘Stay here with me and I’ll 
tell him you’re a new kid, and fix things up. How 
many are you going to buy ? ” . 

“Dime’s worth.” 

“ Think you can sell ’em all ? ” 

“Easy.” 

Shultz studied him for a moment and decided that 
the novice had better learn the vicissitudes of the 
business through bitter experience. John wasn’t the 
kind to take advice, anyway. 

At last the green, one-horse cart pulled up by the 
delicatessen at the side of the old apartments. The 
boys crowded up to the wagon step. Shultz sur- 
rendered a nickel for his nightly quota of eight 
papers and pointed to his pupil. 

“ New kid, Joe.” 

“What’s his name?” 

“John.” 

“All right, John, how many?” 

He reached up the dime and received a neat bun- 
dle of papers in return. The other boy left to make 
deliveries to established customers, while John 
dashed exultantly over to the railroad station. He 


FOUR ROOMS FURNISHED COMPLETE” 185 


was a real paper boy now. The news sheets under 
his arm proved that. 

An incoming suburban train pulled in at the plat- 
form overhead. Steam hissed from the pistons, 
and the first few puffs of locomotive smoke arose as 
the engine got under way again. Then came the 
pound, pound, pound of a multitude of feet as the 
weary, scurrying passengers made the turnstiles 
click continuously. John opened his mouth to call 
his wares. 

« Pa— a—” 

A man with a red necktie glanced down at him. 
The rest of the word became inaudible. What was 
the matter with his voice, anyway? There was 
nothing to be ashamed of in selling papers. The 
policeman wouldn’t arrest him. Again he forced a 
shout, and practiced until he could yell at the top of 
his lungs like an old hand at the game. 

The last saffron tint of the autumn sun faded 
from the western sky. Lights appeared one by one 
in the windows of the flat buildings and glistened 
like jewels in the fast gathering dusk. The store 
windows on either side of the street cast brilliant 
reflections far across the macadam. The lamp- 
lighter, speeding from post to post on a bicycle, 
paused long enough to leave a flickering beacon on 
the corner, then sped away with his long torch over 
one shoulder. Trains came and went. Business 
men in well-tailored, immaculate suits walked 


186 


A SON OF THE CITY 


briskly past. Weak arched clerks with home pressed 
trousers slouched wearily along. Chattering women 
innumerable scurried by on the walk. His dollar 
watch showed a quarter past six in the light from 
the ticket office window and John counted his 
papers. 

Eleven on hand and five paltry coppers in his right 
trousers’ pocket. Caught with an overstock! Not 
only had the prospective profits vanished, but a de- 
ficiency impended as well. He began to under- 
stand the cause of Shultz’s question — and supper 
impended. 

He snatched a moment under the light from the 
street lamp to glance at the funny sheet, for the 
excitement of the new occupation had prevented 
such amusement earlier in the afternoon. As he un- 
folded a copy, a glaring headline on the first page 
held his attention. 

Again the turnstiles clicked, and again came the 
shifting crowd. But John Fletcher was not on the 
station corner to vend his wares. Instead, that small 
boy was legging it westward as fast as he could go. 
Past the school, past the row of dilapidated houses 
which lay beyond, past the plank-walled football 
grounds and the last of the gray stone, many- win- 
dowed university buildings, into the residence dis- 
trict which he had marked as his goal. 

This section of the city was so far removed from 
the railroad station that the inhabitants made use 


FOUR ROOMS FURNISHED COMPLETE” 187 


of the slower street car lines to take them to and 
fro from work. Frank Smith, bookkeeper in a 
wholesale house, would be still on his way home, 
and this difference between the expensive fifteen- 
minute train service, and the fifty-five minutes of 
the more plebeian surface system was all that made 
his plan feasible. What would Mrs. Smith know of 
the day’s news occurrences? 

He waited until his panting grew less violent be- 
fore he sauntered down the gas lit, unpretentious 
street, with a cry of, 

“Extry paper! All about the big South Side 
murder ! Extry pa-a-a-per here. Extre-e-e-e, 
extre-e-e-e, extre-e-e-e ! ” 

Heads became silhouetted in numerous windows 
as their owners tried to catch his words. 

‘‘ A-a-all about the big South Side murder I Extry 
pa-a-a-a-per ! ” 

A door swung back, releasing a flood of light 
against the unkempt front lawn of a two-story cot- 
tage. John dashed up the shaky steps. 

Extry, lady? All about the big murder?” 

She nodded and handed him a penny. The boy 
looked at it scornfully. 

“ Extras are a nickel ! ” 

‘‘ But the paper’s marked ‘ one cent.’ ” 

“ S’pose it would pay,” his voice was as grave 
as a financier’s, discussing a huge stock transfer, 
‘Ho chase all over and miss supper, just to make 


188 


A SON OF THE CITY 


three cents on eight papers? No, lady, price is a 
nickel. Always is.’’ 

He held out his hand. The woman capitulated 
and went back into the house for the stipulated 
coin. 

The sale wiped out the deficit and made an even 
break on the venture, the worst to be feared. Sell- 
ing extras which were not extras to people who 
thought they were was proving a most profitable 
undertaking. He resumed his stroll down the street. 

‘Extra-e-e-e paper here ! South Side family mur- 
dered! Extry paper! Extry, extry, extre-e-e-e ! ” 

Every fourth or fifth residence yielded its toll to 
the grewsome lure. At last but one newspaper re- 
mained. He redoubled his vocal efforts. 

. A woman, her arms full of grocery packages, 
stopped him and fumbled in her purse. Across the 
street, a whistle sounded. He dropped the nickel 
into his pocket, gave over the last of the troublesome 
sheets, and started for home. Again came the whis- 
tle. He made a trumpet of his hands and bellowed 
“ Sold out ” as he turned the corner. If he had only 
more copies ! At least sixty could have been sold. 

Nevertheless, fifty cents for the pig bank — a dime 
was to be reserved for the morrow’s capital — wasn’t 
bad. Surely the other dollar and a half could be 
saved by the end of the week. Earning a thousand 
dollars was as easy as rolling off a log. 

John kissed his mother good-bye in high good 


FOUR ROOMS FURNISHED COMPLETE” 189 


humor, as he left for school in the morning. She 
watched him for a moment as he danced along the 
gusty, wind-swept street, and went in to sit by the 
parlor grate for a few moments. Hardly had she 
opened her magazine when the front door-bell rang, 
and the neighbor from across the way stood on the 
threshold, panting and very much excited. 

“ My dear Mrs. Fletcher,” she shrilled in her acrid 
tones. ‘‘ Do tell me all about it ! ” 

Her hostess led her into the parlor and drew up a 
companion chair before the fire. “About what?” 
she asked. 

“ About Mr. Fletcher.” The neighbor warmed her 
hands a moment before the dancing flames, while 
Mrs. Fletcher looked a mute inquiry. 

“ Mrs. Shultz, she’s my washerwoman,” went on 
the thin, nasal voice, “ said this morning that John 
had told her little boy he had to sell papers because 
your husband had had trouble with his employer and 
had lost his position.” She would have added fur- 
ther details as to the straits the Fletchers were sup- 
posed to be in, if something in that lady’s manner 
had not prevented her. 

“ So I said to Mrs. Leland, next door,” concluded 
the neighbor from across the way, “that I hoped 
things were not as bad as they seemed, and that I’d 
run right over to ask you.” 

“ John told whatf asked that youngster’s mother, 
now that the verbal torrent had halted. 


190 


A SON OF THE CITY 


The story was repeated. Mrs. Fletcher broke into 
relieved laughter. ‘‘ I’ll have to interview that son 
of mine when he gets home,” she said as she leaned 
forward to explain matters. 

But when John did appear, his mother was far 
more lenient with him than he had any right to ex- 
pect. She was still too amused at the turn of affairs 
to be anything else. 

Two weeks sped past. In spite of the success of 
that first paper venture, the lesson was not lost upon 
John, who recruited a dozen or so regular cus- 
tomers from among his mother’s friends the next 
afternoon. Since then, thanks to persistent effort, 
the list had steadily grown until he was able to double 
his first day’s order without danger of financial loss. 
The errands for the neighbors had not materialized 
to swell his income, nor had other umbrella days 
followed the first one. But indeed, the paper route 
occupied too much of his time to permit such side 
issues. 

His minimum income was now at the respectable 
mark of a dollar and seventeen cents a week and still 
growing. At first, the thought that he was falling 
below the two dollar limit troubled him sorely until 
he remembered that everything must have a begin- 
ning. Just wait until a year from now; he’d make 
five dollars a week, he would ! 

‘‘ I’ll bet you five thousand dollars that I do,” he 
had told Silvey when that youngster scoffed at his 


FOUR ROOMS FURNISHED COMPLETE” 191 


plans as they walked to school, one bleak, overcast 
noon. Needless to say. Bill did not meet the wager. 
He wasn’t accustomed to thinking in such large sums 
and, besides, John’s manner was singularly con- 
vincing. 

Louise, the business man scarcely saw at all, save 
to walk home with her from school now and then, 
or to take her on Sunday expeditions to the park. 
On one of the strolls, she told of further experi- 
ments in the science of cookery. “And mother says 
you can come up and watch, tomorrow.” 

He declined as diplomatically as possible. Non- 
delivery of the papers spelled failure for the new 
business. Would she mind ? 

Louise shook her head. Nevertheless, John felt 
that she was hurt. Hang it all, couldn’t a girl under- 
stand? How was the thousand dollars which was 
to start them housekeeping to be earned if he loafed 
away his afternoons? 

Mrs. Fletcher took him down town the Saturday 
before Thanksgiving. Already the holiday throngs 
were beginning to fill the noisy, grimy streets and 
passage in them was both tedious and difficult for a 
small boy. Weary after the morning of tramping 
from store to store, they were returning to the rail- 
road station when a display in a furniture store win- 
dow caught his eye. 

Rich plush hangings and an occasional picture 
gave the impression of the walls of a room. In the 


192 


A SON OF THE CITY 


center, a shiny mahogany bed stood, with a dresser 
of like material and fragile, spindle-legged chairs 
grouped around it. 

He tugged at his mother’s hand to stop a moment. 
She obeyed indulgently, as his eyes became glued to 
the little sign in the foreground. 

‘^Bedroom set. Adam style. Reduced to three 
hundred and sixty-five dollars/' 

He gasped. Three hundred and sixty-five dollars 
for a bed and a dresser and chairs which would break 
the first time a small boy plumped down on them ! 
Then came the appalling thought: How far 

would a thousand dollars last with such prices?" 

All the speeding ride homeward, and after supper 
as he stretched out on the bed before undressing, he 
worried over this new and unexpected problem. If 
bedroom furniture alone cost that much and the pic- 
tures and carpet were still to be paid for, the total 
would at least be four hundred and fifty dollars. 
The parlor should cost even more, for chairs, a sofa, 
and a reading table were to be placed in it. As for 
the dining-room, he shrank from a consideration of 
that expense ! And there were dishes and books and 
silverware! Two thousand dollars was the least he 
could expect his five furnished rooms to cost, and 
he had considered half that amount sufficient for all 
expenses. Newly married folks usually took honey- 
moon trips, too. He groaned. Would he ever earn 
enough to marry Louise? 


FOUR ROOMS FURNISHED COMPLETE” 193 


Thanksgiving drew nearer. At school, on the 
Wednesday immediately preceding, the chosen few 
who were Miss Brown’s personal aides, stayed after 
school at noon to decorate the room for the enter- 
tainment to be given at a quarter of two. Her desk 
was backed against the wall, and the cornstalks used 
by the drawing class as models for their efforts, were 
grouped against it to form a background for the 
impassioned actors. A supply of pumpkins, gourds, 
and other autumnal fruits of the earth, borrowed by 
the teacher from the grocer with whom her mother 
traded, gave still greater festivity to the room. 

There was no need of roll call. Every child was 
there, for they were too much interested to absent 
themselves. 

Miss Brown gave a brief history of the origin of 
the day. A little girl whose pink dress clashed 
violently with her red hair and freckled complexion, 
followed with a rendition of a doleful poem begin- 
ning: 

Only a grain of corn, Mothwr, 

Only a grain of corn. 

Then the class sang one of the songs in the fourth- 
grade music book and settled back expectantly, for 
the feature piece of the afternoon. 

Silvey and Red Brown dragged a long, green cur- 
tain along a wire which ran from one side of the 
room to the other, until the platform was hidden 
from the room’s eager gaze. A scurry of gray calico 


194 


A SON OF THE CITY 


came from the coat closet which served as the green 
room for the amateur actors. A boy, muffled mys- 
teriously in a long cloak, followed. Miss Brown 
gave a last look to see that the stage was properly 

- arranged, and the 
curtain was pulled 
back against the 
wall again. 

It was Sid and 
Louise! He’d 
thrown aside 
the long cloak 
(insisted upon be- 
cause he’d feel 
like a fool if the 
class saw him in 
costume while 
waiting for the 
play to begin). 


W\ 1 '!llj!i M 

and stood forth in high, paper cuffs hiding his 
coat sleeves well up to his elbows, and a queerly 
shaped, high-buckled hat which threatened to slide 
down over his ears at any moment. Louise, in a 
Priscilla gray gown, waited for the pilgrim father 
to begin his lines. The class applauded wildly, for 
the spirit of make believe threw them back into 
those tempestuous early days along the Atlantic 
Coast. 

John heard not a word of the scenes which fol- 



I 


FOUR ROOMS FURNISHED COMPLETE” 195 


lowed. He was sorely disturbed. There was Sid 
on the platform with his beloved, waving his arms 
back and forth in fervid, pump-handle motions 
which Louise seemed to mind not a bit. Hang it all, 
that kid must be trying to cut him out! But he’d 
show him. Just wait until his thousand dollars was 
earned. 

Then his calculations of that Saturday evening 
came back to throw an icy feeling into the pit of 
his stomach. What right had he to hope when 
housefurnishings were at such a figure? 

Mrs. Fletcher set him to picking the pinfeathers 
from the turkey when he came in from his paper 
route that night. He turned to with a gusto, mindful 
of the culinary treats which were to come, and 
blissfully conscious of four long holidays, Thursday, 
Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, in which he could 
sleep as late as he wanted — besides, he could see a 
little more of Louise. He didn’t like the way she had 
acted on the platform. Perhaps he had been a little 
neglectful, but just wait a few years. Then he’d — 
but the thought of that costly furniture put an end to 
his dreams. 

Thanksgiving morning he haunted the kitchen 
incessantly, dancing now to the little pantry to swing 
back the doors and feast his eyes on the huge mince 
pie which waited on the bottom shelf, and then back 
to the kitchen where he pestered his mother with 
innumerable questions until she drove him out into 


196 


A SON OF THE CITY 


the snappy, late November air. He scampered up to 
Bill’s house, where the two boys retired to the chilly 
seclusion of the shack and compared notes. 

‘'We’ve got a fifteen-pound turkey,” said John 
boastfully. 

“ That’s nothing,” Silvey dug scornfully into the 
hard dirt floor with his heel. “You ought to sec 
ours. Twenty pounds, and my, such a big fellow! 
Cranberry sauce an’ roast potatoes, an’ squash to go 
with him. Umni-m-m.” 

“So’ve we,” retorted John, undaunted by this 
itemized account. “Your turkey may be bigger ’n 
ours, but it won’t taste as good, for my ma (he’d 
forgotten his assertion regarding Louise) is the best 
cook in the whole world and there isn’t anyone can 
beat her.” 

Certain empty pangs in nature’s alarm clock 
brought him home half an hour early to inquire 
about dinner. He was most starved to death. 
Wouldn’t mother hurry it up? Mother couldn’t — 
expert cookery was not to be hurried. He’d better 
go out again for a while. 

Instead, he carried the morning paper into the 
parlor and lounged in the big easy chair. The min- 
utes slipped past as he devoured news items, the 
fiction supplement, and miraculous patent medicine 
announcements with amusing impartiality. He 
turned to an inner page and found a huge advertise- 
ment staring him in the face. At the top, floated a 


FOUR ROOMS FURNISHED COMPLETE” 197 


Streamer with the legend, ‘‘You furnish the girl, we 
furnish the house!’’ Further down the page were 
furniture bargains innumerable, for sale on a plan 
of “ One dollar down, seventy-five cents per week,” 
and in the center, between heavy rules, was the an- 
nouncement, “ Four rooms, furnished complete, only 
ninety-five dollars ! ” 

“John,” called his father from the dining-room. 
“ Come to dinner ! ” 

He threw the paper from him in sudden exulta- 
tion, and danced in to the dining-table. His eye took 
in each detail of the evenly browned national bird, 
the long, slender stalks of celery in the dainty china 
dish, the deep-red cranberry jelly, the appetizing 
roasted potatoes, and the golden squash, and he 
smiled happily. 

“ Jiminy, that looks good. Mother ! ” He plumped 
into his seat. “ Hurry up, dad, Fm most ready to 
eat the house ! ” 

But through his brain, as he attacked a third help- 
ing of turkey and its accessories, there still ran the 
exultant echo of “ Four rooms, furnished complete, 
only ninety-five dollars ! ” 

Thus did the day become a real Thanksgiving to 
him. 


CHAPTER X 


CONCERNS SANTA CLAUS MOSTLY 

T EARLY dusk of the Friday holiday, he scam- 



^ pered to a hiding place underneath a house 
porch while Sid DuPree, his face buried in his arms, 
stood against a tree trunk and counted “Five hun- 
dred by five ” as rapidly as he could. But as the cry 
of “ Coming ” echoed between the closely built 
houses, John’s conscience suddenly robbed him of all 
the pleasure in the game of “Hide and seek.” An 
afternoon of suitcase jobs had been frittered away, 
and the paper wagon was due in another fifteen min- 
utes. So he withdrew reluctantly to haunt the walk 
in front of the delicatessen store and wonder that 
the work upon which he had entered with such gusto 
was becoming so irksome. 

A sharp, long-delayed touch of winter had crept 
into the air the night before, and set his toes to 
tingling as he drew his blue, knitted stocking cap 
further over his ears. He scampered along the petri- 
fied lawns on the paper route until the last news 
sheet was delivered, then blew lustily on his black 
mittens to warm his numbed fingers as he started 
for home. There, under the cheerful influence of 
the glowing parlor grate, he waited lazily until the 


198 


CONCERNS SANTA CLAUS MOSTLY 


199 



last trace of tingling had left 
his hands, and spread a copy 
of the evening paper out on 
the carpet before him. 

First he looked at the car- 
toon on the front page, and 
then at the grotesque drawings 
on the back sheet comic sec- 
tion. Those finished, he returned 
to the first page, where an account 
of a ghastly train wreck held him 
spellbound. Searching on an 
inner page for the rest of the 
narrative, he came across a depart- 
ment store’s advertisement which 
banished all thoughts of mangled 
victims and splintered cars from 
his mind. 

^‘Beginning tomorrow, 
Santa Claus will be in his 
little house in our greatly 
enlarged fifth-floor Toyland 
I jjW to greet each and all of his 
1 friends. See the ani- 
^ mated bunnies and 

the blacksmith shop 


Christmas dreams. 



200 


A SON OF THE CITY 


in the Brownie Village, and the wonderful display 
of toys of every description which Santa has 
gathered for the delight of the children.” There 
followed enticing cuts of toys with even more 
alluring descriptions and, alas! oftentimes prohib- 
itive prices. 

Thanks to the paper business, the holiday season 
had crept up almost unnoticed. Santa was an ex- 
ploded myth, these years, but the stereotyped cut of 
the jovial, fat-cheeked saint at the top of the page 
brought John a thrill of anticipation, nevertheless. 
Christmas was coming. What did he want ? 

After supper, he rummaged in the library until he 
found his mother’s box of best stationery. He drew 
a few sheets and several envelopes from the neat 
container, and sat down at his father’s big writing 
desk to begin his series of Christmas letters to cer- 
tain responsive relatives. These favored ones heard 
from him regularly four times a year — before his 
birthday, before Christmas, and as soon after each of 
these feast days as his mother could force letters of 
acknowledgment from him. John dipped the pen 
too deeply into the inkwell, and wiped his finger tips 
dry on his trousers. Then he began, 

‘‘Dear Aunt Clara: I hope you are well. The 
weather is fine but getting cold. Christmas is com- 
ing so I thought I would write you. I want — 

He paused for reflection. Bill Silvey had been 
given a toy electric motor, last year. It was now 


CONCERNS SANTA CLAUS MOSTLY 


201 


in the juvenile scrap heap, thanks to an attempt to 
harness the bit of machinery to the powerful light- 
ing current in Sid’s house, but it had been delight 
indescribable to swing the little switch and watch 
the armature gain momentum until it hummed like a 
bee. So the first of his desires ran, “ Motor, electric. 
Batteries, too.” 

Last year. Bill and he had built a shaky bob for use 
on the park toboggan, only to have a collision with 
a park water hydrant, used for flooding the field, and 
the remains of the sleds had gone to their respective 
family woodpiles. So down went, Sled, coaster, 
with round runners.” 

The descriptive bit was to eliminate any possi- 
bility of getting a high, useless girl’s sled, which 
would go to pieces in less than no time. 

As he thought of each article he wrote, Hockey 
skates. My old ones are rusted. A knife. Mine’s 
lost.” And last, but not least, ‘‘Books, lots of 
them.” 

That exhausted his list of needs. There were a 
thousand other things which he knew he wanted if 
he could only think of them, but the innumerable 
boyish desires which had arisen since his birthday 
in June had fled, and, try as he would, he could recall 
none of them. As a last desperate resort, he scrawled 
a concluding “Anything else useful,” and signed it, 
“Your loving nephew, John.” 

Saturday, an errant breeze from the east veiled 


202 


A SON OF THE CITY 


the clear starlight of the early evening as if by 
magic, and by morning had marshaled long, heavy 
rows of slate-hued clouds which drove over the city 
from the lake. The temperature, too, rose above 
the freezing point and gave the only boy in the 
Fletcher household a chance to bank the ever-hun- 
gry furnace, and shut off all draughts. He employed 
his respite in a blissful perusal of the double-page 
advertisements in the Sunday paper. 

Toys, hundreds of them ! The department stores 
vied with each other in the profusion of their offer- 
ings. Illustrations of “William Tell Banks — drop 
penny in bank and Tell shoots apple from son’s 
head” — mechanical engines which sped around 
three-foot circles of track until any human engineer 
would become dizzy; sleds of every description 
from humble ones at fifty cents to long, elaborately 
enameled speed kings with spring-steel runners, and 
games in innumerable variety, made him read and 
reread the alluring pages until his eyes ached. 

He sighed and looked up dreamily. The moisture- 
laden clouds from the east had borne out the news- 
paper forecast of “probably snow flurries,” and he 
jumped to the window. 

Heavy, feathery flakes were swirling earthward 
with the vagaries of the air currents. Here they 
eddied out from between the houses to disappear on 
the shining black macadam of the street and side- 
walks, there they gave a momentary -touch of white 


CONCERNS SANTA CLAUS MOSTLY 


203 


to the brown, frost-bitten lawns as a prophecy of 
that which was yet to come. In front of the Alfords’, 
Silvey, Perry, and Sid, danced back and forth with 
shouts of laughter as they tried to catch the elusive 
bits of white. He would have joined them, but an 
ache in his stomach told that dinner was near, so he 
returned from his vantage point with a cry of 
“Mother! Mother! Mother! It’s getting Christ- 
masier every minute ! ” 

Nor did the Spirit of the Holidays allow his inter- 
est to lessen during the days when the advertise- 
ments lost their fascination through monotonous 
repetition. As he and Bill ran home at noon one 
day, a quartette of men with bulging, gray denim 
bags on their shoulders, left big yellow envelopes on 
each and every house porch of the street. They were 
rigidly impartial in their work, and John dashed up 
the steps of that same vacant house which the boys 
had held that day with the pea shooters. 

“ Look ! ” he cried, drawing the gaudy pamphlet 
from the manila casing. “ It’s the T oy Book, Sil- 
vey ! ” 

The Toy Book had been issued since time im- 
memorial by one of the down town stores, and its 
yearly visit made it something of an institution 
among the juveniles of the street. On the cover, a 
red-coated, rosy-cheeked Saint Nick, with a toy- 
filled pack, was descending a snow-capped chimney 
while his reindeer cavorted in the background. On 


204 


A SON OF THE CITY 


the back were rows of dainty pink, blue, and green 
clad dolls with flaxen ringlets and staring, china 
eyes — trash which interested John not at all. Why 
didn’t they put engines and sleds and worth-while 
things there ? 

‘'Come on, Bill,” he said -suddenly. “Let’s col- 
lect ’em.” 

They waited until the distributors were too far 
down the street to interfere, and sneaked up and 
down the house steps with careful thoroughness. As 
the bundles under the two boyish arms -.^ere becom- 
ing heavy, Mrs. Fletcher darted out by tj|ie lamppost 
in front of the house and beckoned to John vigor- 
ously. He left Bill with a show of regret, for the 
dozen odd copies under his arm were far less than 
he would have liked. 

Louise sauntered home with him after school that 
day. As they passed Southern Avenue, the lady’s 
gaze rested on a muddy object in the street gutter, 
and John stooped to pick it up. Torn, disfigured 
with innumerable heel marks and wagon wheels, the 
battered bundle of paper was all that remained of a 
Christmas booklet. 

“ Oh ! ” said Louise in surprise. 

“ Didn’t you get one ? ” 

She shook her head. Evidently other boys at her 
end of the street had emulated John and Bill. 

“ Tells all about toys,” he volunteered. “Lll bring 
you one with the paper, if you want.” 


CONCERNS SANTA CLAUS MOSTLY 


205 


She thanked him and dropped the ruin regret- 
fully. Those dolls on the back cover were so 
enticing. 

‘‘Aren’t you glad Christmas is coming?” John 
asked. “Gee, I wish it was day after tomorrow.” 

Louise nodded. 

“ What do you want for Christmas ? ” he pursued. 

She didn’t know. “ A doll — ” 

“A doll!” he interrupted in disgust. What did 
she want with dolls ? They would be of no use when 
she had grown up. 

“Yes, a doll,” said Louise decidedly. John 
feigned placating approval. “ And doll clothes,” she 
went on, “and new hair ribbons and things for my 
dresses, and lots and lots of other presents. What 
do you want?” 

He told her briefly. “But that isn’t half,” he 
concluded, as they loitered on the apartment steps. 
“ Fm trying to think of the others all the time. 
Jiminy ! ” with a glance at his watch, “ Fd better be 
going. I’ve got work to do.” 

But there were no interviews with prospective 
newspaper customers that afternoon. After John 
had started the parlor grate for his mother, he fell 
under the spell of one of the wonder-books and 
scanned page after page of the illustrations until 
Mrs. Fletcher interrupted him. 

“Aren’t you going to deliver your papers, son? 
It’s a quarter of five now.” 


206 


A SON OF THE CITY 


What a pest the paper route was getting to be, 
always demanding his attention just as he wanted to 
do something else. He rose to his feet and stretched 
both arms to take the cramps out of them, pitched 
the booklet into a corner of the hall, and dashed to 
the closet for his coat and mittens. 

After the evening meal, John brought out another 
of his store of gaudy toy books and went into the 
parlor. His father, following a few moments later, 
looked down at the little figure on the carpet before 
the fire, and smiled. 

‘‘ What is it, son ? ” 

The boy raised his head, brown eyes a-dream with 
visions of automobiles, steam engines, and hook and 
ladder outfits. 

Looking at this,’^ he explained. 

Mr. Fletcher drew up the big, easy armchair 
which he liked so well, and lifted him into his lap. 
A moment later, the two heads, the old and the 
young, bent over the picture-laden pages. 

“Look, daddy.” John pointed to a locomotive 
with pedals and a seated cab for a youthful engineer. 
“ I saw one, once. All red and shiny, with a black 
smokestack. And the bell really rings.” 

“ But don’t you think that’s too much money for 
a toy?” 

The boy nodded reluctantly. “ Still, it’s such lots 
of fun to just wish for things, even though you know 
you can’t have them.” 


CONCERNS SANTA CLAUS MOSTLY 


207 


The strong arms tightened about him tenderly for 
a moment. As they relaxed, John turned the leaves 
back rapidly. 

“ Let’s begin at the very beginning,” he explained, 
then rapped the first page petulantly. ‘‘ Nothing but 
dolls and dolls and more dolls,” as a procession of 
things dear to the feminine heart passed by; “and 
doll bathtubs and dishes and other sissy things.” 
He bent forward suddenly. 

“That’s better. A ’lectric railroad. Let’s take 
your pencil.” He marked an irregular cross beside 
the illustration. “And here come the sleds. Lots 
of them aren’t so very ’spensive. And banks,” he 
smiled. “ I guess mine’s big enough, isn’t it, 
daddy?” 

Mr. Fletcher joined in the smile. Indeed until he 
had seen that porker safe on his son’s bureau, he had 
no idea that so large a china animal existed. The 
boy broke in on his thoughts excitedly. 

“Punch and Judys!” His memory swept back 
to the raftered hall and Professor O’Reilley’s per- 
formance. “ They’re such fun, and they don’t cost 
very much. If I had one, I wouldn’t spend any 
money on those shows, either.” 

His father chuckled at the bit of juvenile diplo- 
macy. “ You’d better make out your Christmas list 
for us before that pencil gets worn out making 
crosses, son.” 

He slid from the paternal knee and was off to the 


208 


A SON OF THE CITY 


library in a trice. Mrs. Fletcher had overheard the 
finish of the conversation and smiled in on him be- 
fore she joined her husband in reading the evening 
paper. Minutes passed. 

Most finished, son ? ” called Mr. Fletcher. It’s 
nearly bedtime, you know.” 

A grunt was the only response. 

“ Better add a few things you’ll need around the 
flat when you and Louise are married ! ” 

“ John ! ” Mrs. Fletcher rattled her newspaper dis- 
approvingly. Do stop teasing that boy.” 

A few moments later, her son appeared in the 
doorway, yawning sleepily. 

“ It isn’t ready yet,” he said. I’m going to bed 
now.” 

Late the following evening, Mrs. Fletcher opened 
her son’s door to see if he slept soundly, and a scrap 
of paper fluttered from an anchoring pin to the floor. 
She picked it up. True to his peculiar custom, John 
had presented his Christmas needs in a manner which 
seemed more delicate than to ask in person for them. 
With a whimsical, sympathetic smile, she rejoined 
her husband in the big bedroom. 

‘‘Look what your joking did last night!” She 
handed him the slip of paper. He, too, chuckled ten- 
derly, for the scrawl ran : “ What I want for Chris- 
mas : Pictures, pretty ones. Picture frames. Chairs, 
Plates for dinner. Knives, Spoons, Anything for a 
flat.” A little space followed as if the author had 


CONCERNS SANTA CLAUS MOSTLY 


209 


hesitated before he had added in heavier writing 
that which told of a longing not to be denied, 
“ Books, lots of them.” 

Christmas drew nearer. The delivery wagons 
from the down-town stores made more and more 
frequent stops at the Fletchers, to leave odd-shaped 
bundles in the hallway, bundles at which John would 
gaze longingly as if to pierce the outer wrappings 
and excelsior. Watching the packages arrive was 
half the fun of Christmas, anyway. 

His own shopping list was small. He broached 
the subject of a gift for his father to Mrs. Fletcher. 
Would she buy it, the next time she went to town? 
“ Then it’ll be a surprise for dad.” Likewise he ap- 
proached Mr. Fletcher. ‘‘ Then mother won’t know 
Fm buying her a book,” he explained. But he was 
uncertain what to order for Louise. He’d never 
made a present to a girl before. 

The Friday before the great holiday, the papers 
upset his plans. The store of the Toy Book an- 
nounced that Santa Claus leaves tomorrow for his 
home at the North Pole. As a farewell inducement 
to the children of this city to visit him, he will give 
a splendid present to each and every girl or boy ac- 
companied by an adult.” 

The North Pole part was all bosh. John knew 
that well, thanks to his present sophistication. But 
the lure of the present set him to thinking. Couldn’t 
he — providing of course that maternal permission 


210 


A SON OF THE CITY 


was given — go down town and do his shopping Sat- 
urday afternoon and wander around the different toy 
displays to his heart’s content? But there was the 
paper route. Blame the nuisance, anyway ! 

He sprinted up to see Bill after supper. Would 
his chum make the deliveries if he gave him a list 
of the customers? John would be willing to pay a 
dime for the service. 

Silvey assented gladly, for ten-cent pieces were 
scarcities among the small boy population just before 
Christmas, when the display of penny and five-cent 
novelties in the school store window proved so tempt- 
ing. Thus the difficulty was solved. 

Two o’clock the following day found John fol- 
lowing the varied shopping crowd through the re- 
volving doors of the biggest department store. In- 
side, the aisles were packed with a jostling, slowly 
moving throng. Fat, breathless hausfraus rubbed 
elbows with high-cheeked, almond-eyed Slav 
maidens, and tired office clerks took advantage of 
the half holiday to fill their shopping lists. Here, a 
well-dressed, clear-complexioned lady of leisure ex- 
amined an expensive knickknack, there an Irish 
mother led her brood to the throng around the ele- 
vators that they might see Santa Claus. But they 
were all filled with a desire to buy, buy, buy, in the 
name of the Christmas Spirit, and buyers and de- 
partment heads rubbed their hands gleefully as they 
watched the overworked clerks. John fought his 


CONCERNS SANTA CLAUS MOSTLY 


211 


way to the nearest floorman, a white-haired veteran 
of many such rush seasons. 

Where’s the neckties?” he asked. That em- 
ployee looked down at him wearily. Next to the 
last aisle — to your right.” 

Past the silverware counter, past the women’s 
gloves, past innumerable little booths with high- 
priced holiday trinkets, and past the fountain-pen 
display — at last the long, oval counter came in sight. 
Eager purchasers stood two and three deep around 
the spaces where goods were on display. Clerks 
hurried back and forth in response to the calls of the 
wrapping girls, and change carriers popped unceas- 
ingly from the pneumatic tubes. John plied his 
elbows vigorously and worked his way through the 
thickest of the crowd. Above him, hands grabbed 
feverishly at the tangled heap of ties on the counter 
top, while querulous voices requested instant atten- 
tion from the sales force. 

One of the four-in-hands dropped over the edge. 
The boy seized upon it, fingered it, and threw the bit 
of goods back in the heap. Poor stuff that, even at 
a quarter. His mother’s frequent dissertations upon 
silk samples which she had brought home had taught 
him that much. He waved a frantic hand to attract 
attention until a tall, spectacled clerk took pity on 
him. 

Let’s see a tie, a real one ! Don’t care if I have 
to pay a whole half-dollar for it ! ” 


212 


A SON OF THE CITY 


“What color?” 

John’s lower lip drooped. He hadn’t noticed his 
father’s taste in neckwear. “ Red,” he hazarded at 
last. 

A crimson horror was thrust in front of him. 
Yellow cross-stripes clamored against the fiery back- 
ground. The clerk twisted it deftly around his fore- 
finger and, behold, it was made up as if in the pater- 
nal collar. 

“Like it?” 

John nodded and brought out a fifty-cent piece 
which he had forced from the pig bank that morn- 
ing. A moment later, the wrapped holly box was 
given him, and he was off in the direction of the 
book department. 

Still the crowds ! They choked the aisles and car- 
ried him here and there at the mercy of their eddies. 
Now he was forced up against a wooden counter 
edge, now jammed against two fat women in rusty 
black who were buying devotional books for the 
edification of less pious friends. At last a sign, 
“Popular copyrights, fifty cents a volume,” gave 
impetus to his hitherto haphazard course. 

The poorly dressed salesgirl behind the counter 
smiled down at him in a manner which successive 
ten o’clock sessions had failed to eradicate. “ What 
kind? ” she asked. 

His gaze wandered helplessly over the bewilder- 
ing array of volumes. 


CONCERNS SANTA CLAUS MOSTLY 


213 


“ Here’s something everyone’s reading,” she sug- 
gested, holding up an inane, pretty-girl covered book. 
He eyed it dubiously and pointed to a title Which 
hinted of the West and of Indian fights. 

Give me that one,” he said decisively. His own 
love affair had proven that heroes and heroines in 
every day life never have the easy sailing which a 
limited reading of popular novels had implied. Any- 
way, cowboy stories were the most exciting. 

With the two packages wedged securely under his 
arm, he battled a way to the elevators. The family 
shopping was over and the real business of the day, a 
tour of the toy section and a present for Louise, 
called him. 

“Fifth floor,” droned the elevator man. “Toys, 
dolls, games, Christmas-tree ornaments.” 

His words became drowned in a sudden babel 
which made ordinary conversation impossible. A 
murmur of a thousand voices blended with the rattle 
of mechanical trains and the tooting of toy horns. 
Impatient salesmen called “ Cash, cash, cash ! ” at 
the top of their lungs. Wails arose from hot, dis- 
gruntled infants. Now and then a large steam en- 
gine in operation at one counter corner, whistled 
shrilly when mischievous juvenile hands swung back 
the throttle. 

At the far end of the floor, where the carpet and 
rug department had been shifted for the holiday 
season, a long line of people were waiting. Heavily 


214 


A SON OF THE CITY 


clad, perspiring women shifted infants from one arm 
to the other as they walked patiently along. Poorly 
clad street loafers sought to idle away their time 
with a visit to Santa Claus. Tall, slim young women 
yanked their little brothers into place or besought 
small sisters to ** Hush up, we’re nearly there ! ” 
And up and down the whole line, a baker’s dozen of 
streets gamins skirmished on the lookout for some 
adult to whom they might attach themselves for the 
time being. 

Clearly that pointed the way to the little house and 
the fulfillment of the gift promise. 

John worked himself cautiously along the line in 
spite of cries of, Cheater, look at him ! ” from boys 
with maternal impediments to prevent like maneu- 
vers. When the white, asbestos snow-covered house 
came in view, John halted discreetly, for, with the 
goal so near, he could not risk being thrown out of 
the line for cutting ahead of others. 

Slowly the people moved forward until the in- 
terior of the room was visible through the little side 
window. At the far end of a wooden counter, a 
fat, red-coated Santa Claus passed trinket after 
trinket into eager juvenile hands, pausing now and 
then, as childish lips lisped requests for dolls, sleds, 
or other toys. 

On the very threshold, a stocky store employee 
interposed a hand in front of John. 

“ Where’s your folks ? ” he demanded. 


CONCERNS SANTA CLAUS MOSTLY 


215 


The boy gasped. That condition of the distribu- 
tion had been completely forgotten. 

‘‘Well?’’ pressed the inquisitor, a smile about his 
lips. 

He gazed about desperately. Just leaving the 
room was a buxom German woman in black, with a 
hat covered with bobbing, blue-green plumes. 

“ There she is,” he pointed. “ That’s my mother. 
I got separated from her.” 

The man removed his arm and chuckled. At least 
three other urchins had claimed relationship with 
that self-same lady. 

Up to the old saint at last. His ruddy-cheeked 
mask was softened by perspiration, and there was 
a droop about his red-clad shoulders which expressed 
a wish that this, the last day of his sojourn in the 
city, were already over. John grabbed the cheap 
pencil box which was handed him. The guardian at 
the exit was crying, “Keep moving, keep mov- 
ing,” and the lethargic line in obedience carried John 
beyond the confines of the house to new wonders. 

If the Brownie Village forced staid adults to pause 
and smile appreciatively at the whimsicalities of 
gnome life, the juveniles halted and dragged and 
impeded the progress of the procession as each new 
wonder confronted them. 

White-furred little bunnies moved solemnly along 
at intervals over concealed runways, stopping now 
and then to bow to the amused audience. Winking, 


216 


A SON OF THE CITY 


gray-bearded elves bobbed up from behind canvas 
rocks to wave diminutive hands before popping back 
to their shelters. One sun-bonneted fellow in 
patched overalls bent spasmodically over a little 
wooden wash tub on a hill. Further on, a perpetual 
clatter drew attention to the rustic forge where a 
brown-clad smith hammered lustily at a miniature 
horse shoe. At the end, stood a second brazen- 
lunged sentry, who like the other, implored the crowd 
to “Keep moving. Please keep moving.” 

Out by the toy counters, John found a dirty- faced 
street gamin in patched knee trousers confronting 
him. They eyed each other for a moment. 

“ Going ’round again ? ” asked John. 

The boy nodded. “ What’d he give you ? ” 

John displayed his pencil box; the boy, a dis- 
cordant reed whistle. 

“Want to trade?” No sooner offered than ac- 
cepted. What was the use of a school pencil box 
anyway ? 

Again they fell in with the Santa Claus line, hop- 
ing devoutly that the sentry would not recognize 
them. But on the third trip as they nodded toward 
an unkempt, brown-shawled Italian woman, the clerk 
bent over. 

“ Three times and out” he whispered as the boys’ 
hearts went pitapat. “ See ? ” 

They saw, and went off in search of new pleas- 
ures. First they stopped at the mechanical train 


CONCERNS SANTA CLAUS MOSTLY 


217 


booth. When the operator of the miniature railroad 
was engaged, John’s new found friend threw over 
a tiny switch and caused an unlooked for wreck on 
the line. A floorwalker pounced on them and or- 
dered them away, so they sauntered down the aisle 
to a crowd which courted investigation. 

“ Kid lost,” explained the street gamin, who pos- 
sessed an uncanny trick of working his way through 
a throng. They’re taking him away now.” 

Along counter after counter, the boys wandered, 
past the dollar typewriter booth, through the doll 
carriage aisle, where a little girl tried to carry a 
vehicle away with her and made things momentarily 
exciting, and over by the electrical toys, the building 
blocks, and the sleds. 

“Gee,” said the dirty-faced boy as they stooped 
to examine a price tag, “ My legs are ’most off me.” 

John examined his watch. Half past six! And 
he should have started for home an hour ago. Al- 
ready his stomach clamored for something to eat. 
He invested a nickel in peanuts, and the pair de- 
voured them ravenously. Then John wiped the last 
traces of salt from the corners of his mouth, said 
good-bye, and fled for the elevator. It would be 
nearly eight when he arrived and mother might be 
anxious over this trip — his first alone — to town. 

He passed through the revolving doors for the 
second time that day and stopped short in the bril- 
liantly lighted street. He’d forgotten about Louise ! 


218 


A SON OF THE CITY 


But perhaps some one would make a purchase for 
him later. 

He passed a store with a red auction flag wav- 
ing in the doorway. In the window was a tempting 
array of cheap jewelry, watches, and holiday goods. 
Surely there must be something that would be suit- 
able for his lady. 

The room was filled with tobacco smoke and the 
odor of unwashed humanity, for chilled vagrants 
helped to swell the throng which gathered around 
the raucous-voiced auctioneer. As John entered, that 
worthy lifted a glistening object in a green plush 
case high in the air that all might see it. 

‘‘This lady’s watch has been asked for, gentle- 
men. Sixteen jewels in its movement and a solid 
gold-filled twenty-year case — and fit for any lady 
in the land to wear. Will somebody start bidding ? ” 

John fumbled in his pocket and took inventory of 
the remains of the two dollars which had been filched 
from the pig bank. Presents for his mother and 
father had depleted the sum by half, peanuts had 
cost a nickel, and carfare, including the return trip, 
would account for another dime. 

“ How much am I offered, gentlemen,” persisted 
the man behind the glass counter. “ How much am I 
offered?” 

There was no response. He passed the timepiece to 
a man in the front row and requested that he ex- 
amine it carefully. 


CONCERNS SANTA CLAUS MOSTLY 


219 


“ Isn’t it a beauty ? ” He raised the watch in the 
air again. “Now, will some one please bid?” 

“Eighty-five cents,” called John. Subdued 
laughter arose as the auctioneer bowed elaborately. 
“ I thank you. This gentleman knows a good thing 
when he sees it. Eighty-five, eighty-five, a dollar 
and a half, a dollar and a half, two dollars, two dol- 
lars, two dollars — ” 

The boy lost interest in the proceedings. What 
was the use of wishing that you might give such a 
trinket to your lady love if you hadn’t the money to 
pay for it? 

There were books, but Louise was not over fond 
of reading; ash trays, atrocious Japanese vases with 
wart-like protuberances on their sides, and cut-glass 
dishes — each in its turn went to some fortunate, or 
unfortunate, who outbid John’s modest offer. 

At last the auctioneer rummaged among the con- 
glomeration of articles on the counter below him 
and brought forth a little china dish. 

“I have here,” he began, “a hand-painted china 
vanity box. Think of it, gentlemen, these dainty 
violets are hand painted, and the top is solid gold- 
filled. Inside is a soft, dainty, powder puff. How 
much am I offered for this beautiful trinket. An 
ideal gift for wife, sister, or sweetheart. How much 
am I offered?” 

A man in a far corner of the room bid a quarter. 
The auctioneer looked pained. “ Only a quarter bid ? 


220 


A SON OF THE CITY 


Gentlemen, it’s a shame. The time taken to decorate 
it was worth more than that. Only a quarter bid ? 
That gentleman must be married. Is that all he 
thinks of his wife? ” 

The gathering tittered derisively. Came a bid 
of forty cents as a reward for his efforts. 

“ Forty cents,” the droning voice went on. ‘‘ Forty 
cents — forty — forty, fifty cents, I thank you — 
fifty cents, fifty cents, fifty-five, fifty-five, going at 
fifty-five, fifty-five, better than nothing, fifty-five — ** 
Eighty- FIVE ! ” shouted John. 

“ Sold,” concluded the auctioneer. ‘‘ Sold to our 
friend here at eighty-five cents. Will the lucky pur- 
chaser step up to the cashier?” 

With the precious package safely in his pocket, the 
boy darted for the car line. Another hour had 
elapsed, and he dreaded the “ penny lecture ” which 
must be awaiting him on his arrival. 

But inside the street car, though the air was stif- 
ling, and large, heedless grown-ups crushed him 
with each jolt of the uneven roadbed, his spirits rose 
buoyantly. 

His holiday shopping was concluded. Christmas 
was less than a week away, and he had a vision of 
a beautifully hand-painted vanity box with a glis- 
tening solid gold-filled top greeting him from 
Louise’s chiffonier when his thousand dollars had 
been achieved and the age of twenty-one reached 
which allowed him the independence of marriage. 


CHAPTER XI 


HE HAS A VERY HAPPY CHRISTMAS 

HRISTMAS EVE! Home to a six-o’clock 
supper after the daily paper distribution was 
finished, and then to bed, ’Cause going to bed early 
makes Christmas come sooner. Mother ! ” 

On the back porch, the tree, a big, bushy- 
branched fir, lay waiting to be carried into the front 
hall. The lower floor was filled with mysterious 
packages, so disguised by bulky wrappings that their 
contents could not even be surmised, and all over 
the house, from the attic where the tree decorations 
were stored, to the holly-trimmed parlor hovered 
an air of holiday expectancy. 

He loved that thrill, did John. Earlier, the possi- 
bilities which Santa’s visit held furnished it to him, 
for who was to know which of the many needs that 
personage would see fit to satisfy? And the very 
Christmas after he had exposed the old fellow as a 
delightful, kindly fraud, he had sheepishly asked 
his parents to decorate the tree and arrange the gifts 
as before, ‘‘’Cause being surprised is the best part 
of Christmas.” 

That night when he had caught Santa ! The mem- 
ory of it brought a retrospective smile to his lips, in 
221 


222 


A SON OF THE CITY 


Spite of the shivers which the chilled bed sheets sent 
through his warm little body. Awakened by a noise 
below, he had drawn the old bathrobe about him as 
protection from the frosty air, and tiptoed into the 
dark hallway. Well around the stair landing, a 
scene met his eyes ! 

There stood the tree, wedged firmly into the soap- 
box support with flat irons around the base for bal- 
last. In one corner of the room, a Noah’s ark, which 
later came to an untimely end on a mud-puddle 
cruise, had spilled its assortment of cardboard ani- 
mals out on the carpet. Near the doorway lay a red 
fireman’s suit, and in the dining-room, bending over 
the candy-filled cornucopias on the table were his 
father and mother. 

^‘W-where’s Santa Claus?” he had stammered, 
not grasping the situation at first. A sharp, gasping 
breath of surprise came from his mother as his 
father broke into chagrined laughter. 

'‘I guess you’ve found him, son,” had been the 
reply. And that was the end of Santa Claus. 

A few moments later, a long, empty freight train 
rattled cityward unnoticed, as John’s regular breath- 
ing told off, faithfully as any timepiece, the fast les- 
sening minutes which stood between him and Christ- 
mas Day. 

He wakened with a start. The late, gray dawn 
of winter was peering in between the window shades 
and the sashes, casting hesitant shadows about the 


HE HAS A VERY HAPPY CHRISTMAS 


223 


room. He rubbed his eyes sleepily for a moment, 
then, remembering, sprang to his feet and opened 
the blinds. 

A dun railroad embankment lay before him, with 
lighter streaks which told where the shining rails lay. 
Over on the boulevards, the arc lights twinkled 
sleepily, their long night vigil nearly finished. The 
barren tree tops which skirted the park, made a lace 
work against the frosty, winter’s sky, and here and 
there, chance rays of light threw piles of rubbish in 
the big lot into unlovely relief. The same kindly, 
grimy, disorderly neighborhood of the day before 
and the year before, and yet the spirit of Christmas 
cast a halo over the whole and beautified it in the 
boy’s eyes. 

It’s Christmas, it’s Christmas,” he repeated over 
and over again as he drew on his clothes. 

Then for a tiptoed scamper down the stairs for 
a view of the surprises which were awaiting him in 
the hall below. 

A scent of pine, reminiscent of the sweet-scented 
Michigan forests, made him sniff eagerly. There 
towered the tree on the spot where its predecessors 
had stood in front of the fireplace, so tall that the tip 
barely missed the ceiling. Gleaming spheres caught 
the light from the stair window in brilliant contrast 
with the dark, needled depths. Cornucopias, candy 
laden, weighted the boughs. Sugar chains made 
symmetrical festoons of beads as they looped down 


224 


A SON OF THE CITY 


from the upper branches, and innumerable candles 
stood stiffly in their holders, waiting for the taper 
in his father’s hand to bring them to life. 

Underneath the tree lay his presents. Not so 
many, perhaps, oh, sons of richer parents, as you 
may have had, but John’s eyes grew wider and wider 
with delight as each object greeted him. 

There lay the sled, long, low and scarlet, not as 
ornate as the expensive Black Beauty,” for which 
he had longed, but quite as serviceable. At the ter- 
minal of a railway system which encircled the tree 
base, stood a queer, foreign mechanical engine, with 
an abbreviated passenger car, and on a corner of the 
sheet which was to protect the carpet from candle 
drip, was a dry battery and diminutive electric 
motor. Then there were books — Optics, The Rover 
Boys, and others of their ilk — which would furnish 
recreation for months to come, regardless of his 
rapid reading. 

Of course he turned the switch and listened to 
the hum of the little motor until the battery threat- 
ened to be exhausted; of course the railway was put 
into immediate and repeated operation, regardless of 
the noise which might awaken his parents. And he 
stood up, at least three times, sled pressed tightly 
against his chest, and made imaginary dashes down 
the park toboggan, outspeeding even the long bob- 
sleds as the ice flew beneath him. Then he glanced 
at the title pages of the books again and even read 


HE HAS A VERY HAPPY CHRISTMAS 


225 


a page or two from each opening chapter that he 
might know which would have the honor of being 
chosen for first consumption by his hungry mind. 
Finally, he stretched out on his back beneath the tree 
and gazed upward, watching each glistening detail 
in utter content. 

Voices upstairs told John that his parents had 
wakened at last. Up the winding flight as fast as his 
little legs could carry him, and into the big south 
room with a cry of, ‘‘ Oh, Mother ! Mother ! Daddy ! 
it’s just fine! ” 

‘‘ Happy, son ? ” asked his mother as he snuggled 
down beside her on the bed. 

He nodded. Happy? Who wouldn’t be with all 
those treasures in his possession? Mr. Fletcher 
chuckled. 

“There’s a box on your mother’s bureau which 
we forgot to put under the tree,” he said. “You 
can open it here if you wish.” 

The boy was up and back in a trice, this time to his 
father’s bed, where he sat and tugged at the pink 
string fastenings until a set of doll’s dishes came 
in sight. 

“That’s in answer to that list of yours,” he was 
told. “Think those will do for your flat, son?” 

“ Louise’ll like ’em,” he smiled unabashed. “ Fll 
give ’em to her with my other present.” 

More chuckles, more smiles, and more laughter. 
What matter if all else in the world went wrong, if 


226 


A SON OF THE CITY 


the Spirit of Christmas reigned supreme in that 
family for the day ? 

‘‘What did you see in the parlor, John?” asked 
his father. 

“ Something in the parlor ? ” The boy was on his 
feet again. “ Where ? ” 

“ Wait a minute until I get my bathrobe and Til 
go with you.” 

A little later, the two descended the stairway, hand 
in hand. John’s gaze followed his father’s point- 
ing finger as they stood on the parlor threshold. In 
front of the dead grate, was a three foot, denim- 
covered, cabinet. From the square opening at the 
top hung half a dozen or so of limp, dangling figures. 

“ Punch and Judy ! ” John could scarcely believe 
his eyes. “ Oh, Daddy ! Daddy ! ” 

In a moment. Punch was on his right hand and 
Judy on his left as he wiggled his fingers back and 
forth to see if they worked as did the showman’s at 
Neighborhood Hall. Judy bobbed up on the stage as 
his father beamed down at him. 

“Mr. Punch, Mr. Punch,” she called. But her 
voice had neither the range nor the strength which 
Judy demanded to be successful, and he drew the 
marionettes off his fingers. 

“Here,” he said to his father, “you work ’em. 
Mine don’t act right.” 

Nothing loath, Mr. Fletcher stretched himself out 
on the floor behind the little cabinet. John shifted to 


HE HAS A VERY HAPPY CHRISTMAS 


227 


the front and watched eagerly with his head resting 
on his hands. 

What a Punch and Judy show it was that ensued ! 
Mr. Fletcher, drawing on his fertile imagination, 
invented a new set of domestic quarrels for the un- 
happy couple, brought in a doctor and a clown (two 
lifelike dolls which supplemented the original, lim- 
ited performers), and kept John shrieking with 
laughter until the ruddy- faced little devil brought 
the performance to a close in the time-honored way. 

Subdued laughter in the doorway made them both 
look up with a start. There stood Mrs. Fletcher, 
fully dressed, with a smile on her face. 

“John senior,” she ordered with mock severity, 
“go upstairs and dress yourself for breakfast im- 
mediately. I do believe you’re the biggest boy of the 
two in spite of your age.” 

After the morning meal had been eaten, John de- 
voured the contents of a candy-filled cornucopia 
from the tree, and drew on his stocking cap, coat, 
and mittens. Louise’s presents were to be delivered, 
and that was a matter which brooked no unseemly 
delay. 

Mrs. Martin’s sister answered his ring at the 
apartment. 

“ Louise home ? ” he inquired eagerly. 

Her aunt explained that Louise had gone out of 
town with her mother for a three-day Christmas 
visit. 


228 


A SON OF THE CITY 


‘‘ She’ll be back, the day after tomorrow,” she 
consoled him. 

So he left the presents in her charge with instruc- 
tions to give them to his lady on the very moment 
of her arrival, and scampered down the carpeted 
stairway again. 

Sid DuPree met him in front of his house. John 
surveyed him warily. 

‘‘ To!” 

“To!” 

“ What’d your folks give you ? ” 

“ Oh, lots of things. What’d you get ? ” 

Sid stopped a moment to recount his various gifts, 
lest one of them be omitted in the effort to impress 
his neighbor. 

“ ’Nother football,” he boasted. “ Cost five dol- 
lars, it did.” 

“ I got a railway with forty-’leven pieces of 
track.” 

“ My uncle sent me a peachy pair of boxing 
gloves,” Sid continued. 

“Just wait till you see what my uncle sends me. 
Always comes in the mail, it does, but it hasn’t come 
yet. Besides, I got a new sled.” 

“ And I’ve got a punching bag.” 

“But you ought to see my ’lectric motor,” re- 
torted John, still undaunted. “You just wait till 
you see the toys I make for it to run.” 

Sid had saved his last and most cherished posses- 


HE HAS A VERY HAPPY CHRISTMAS 


229 


sion until the last. ‘‘ My mother, she gave me a real 
gun, a Winchester. It’ll shoot across the lake, it 
shoots so far. I’m going hunting with it on the 
ranch, next summer.” 

“That’s all right.” John was not in the least 
nonplussed. “But the cops won’t let you shoot it 
in the city, and you’ve got to wait until spring comes 
before you can use it. I can go home and have all 
sorts of fun with all my things, now'' 

Silvey and Perry sauntered up. 

“ ’Lo ! ” came the inevitable greeting. 

“ ’Lo ! ” came the inevitable reply. 

“ What did you get for Christmas ? ” asked Perry. 

John allied himself instantly with Sid in the ef- 
fort to outboast the new arrivals. 

“Sid’s got a sure enough gun,” he said impres- 
sively. “Bigger’n I am.” 

“And John’s got an electric motor,” chimed in 
Sid as John finished. “ He’s going to hitch it on his 
his new sled with a pair of oars, and go rowing 
over the snow when snow comes. My, but it’s 
strong ! ” 

“ We’ve got a Christmas tree,” spoke up Silvey. 

“ So’ve we,” said John. 

“ So’ve we,” Perry added. 

“But mine’s bigger’n any of yours,” Bill in- 
sisted. “It’s so big, we most had to cut a hole in 
the ceiling to set it up. And wide? It’s so wide I 
can hardly get in the room with it.” 


230 


A SON OF THE CITY 


“ Tain’t/’ exclaimed John incredulously. Noth- 
ing can be bigger ’n ours.’’ 

“Come and see,” was Silvey’s unanswerable re- 
tort. So the quartette trooped up the street to 
“ come and see.” 

On their way, they passed the postman, struggling 
under his load of Christmas packages. Not only 
was his leather sack packed to overflowing with mail, 
but a little cart which he dragged behind him on 
the walk also held its quota of letters and gifts. 

“ Merry Christmas ! ” the boys called to him. He 
was a genial soul, not in the least like the evil-tem- 
pered crank who had held the route the year before. 

He smiled back at them, for he had just been 
given a seventh necktie which a family had decided 
was too hideous to be worn by the original recipi- 
ent, and was in high spirits. 

“Any mail for us?” came the chorus of inquiry. 

He fingered the mail in his sack. “ Here you are, 
young Fletcher! Catch!” 

“From my aunt,” announced John proudly as he 
looked at the postmark. “ She always sends me jim- 
dandy things for Christmas.” He ripped the pro- 
tecting envelope away and stared in amazement at 
the two white-crocheted squares in his hand. 

“Washrags, washrags!” jeered the boys. For 
once. Aunt Clara had followed the haphazard sug- 
gestion at the end of his letter and had sent some- 
thing useful. 


HE HAS A VERY HAPPY CHRISTMAS 231 



He jammed the offending gifts into his pocket, 
and sought to change the subject. 

“ Come on, Silvey, let’s see that big tree of yours.” 
So they stamped up the Silvey front steps and into 
the house. 

There,” said Bill, pointing proudly at the fam- 
ily fir. 

John gave one disgusted glance. “That? Why 
that’s set on a little table ! Wouldn’t come near the 
ceiling if it was on the floor. Come down to my 
house and I’ll show you a real tree.” 

They left the Silvey house noisily. 

“Beat you down to John’s,” Perry shouted as 
they stood on the front walk. Away they went, 
pufflng like little steam engines, in the cold air. A 


232 


A SON OF THE CITY 


moment later, they stood admiringly in the Fletcher 
hall. 

“Now, isn’t our tree bigger’n yours?” 

Silvey admitted that it was, thus adding the final 
restoring touches to John’s complacency. Then 
they staged an impromptu Punch and Judy show 
and played with the other toys until Mrs. Fletcher, 
beaming in spite of perspiration, came into the 
room. 

“ The turkey’s most done, John, so the boys had 
better go home now. They can come back at five 
to see the tree lighted, if they wish.” 

Would they care to? You just bet they would! 

The front door slammed behind them, and John 
went out to the kitchen to nibble at bits of celery, 
sample the cranberry sauce, and in other ways an- 
noy his busy mother until she turned on him despair- 
ingly. 

“ For heaven’s sake, John, go into the parlor and 
read one of your new books until dinner’s ready if 
you can’t be quiet.” 

By five in the afternoon, he was so thoroughly 
surfeited with the season’s delights, that he had 
barely enough energy to stand in the window and 
peer into the lighted area around the street lamp as 
he watched for his guests; for to bountiful helpings 
of turkey, potatoes, cranberry sauce, dressing, and 
a quarter of one of his mother’s delicious plum 
puddings had been added cornucopia after cornu- 


HE HAS A VERY HAPPY CHRISTMAS 233 


copia of candy, until his stomach, for once in his 
life, caused misgivings as to its food capacity. 

Perry Alford came punctual to the minute, and 
shortly thereafter Red Brown, Sid DuPree, Silvey, 
and Skinny Mosher. Mrs. Fletcher had made use 
of her telephone to make the gathering a little more 
of a party for John than he had anticipated. 

Another display of the presents followed, while 
his father and mother stood in the parlor doorway 
and beamed down upon the youngsters. When the 
excitement had died away somewhat, Silvey spoke up. 

Let's have a Punch and Judy show now, fel- 
lows." 

“ Come on, dad," added John. ‘‘ You can do it 
best." 

So for the second time that day, the room formed 
the theater for that ancient, comic tragedy. But as 
the devil popped up on the shaky little stage to make 
an end to Punch, there came a cry of protest from 
the audience who were squatting breathlessly on the 
floor. 

“ Oh, not yet, not yet. Please, not yet." 

So Punch triumphed in his fight with the little 
red- faced imp, and the play went forward through 
a new and altogether delightful chapter of the Punch 
family's existence. Amid the laughter which fol- 
lowed its conclusion, John disappeared silently and 
came back into the room with a box of tapers. 

‘‘ Now, daddy, light the tree." 


234 


A SON OF THE CITY 


Nothing loath, Mr. Fletcher obeyed. Candle after 
candle on the tinselled branches sprang into life 
until the fir stood in a flickering blaze of glory while 
the boys stood back and watched with a feeling akin 
to awe at the beauty of it. At a propitious moment, 
he reached carefully between the waving lights and 
brought out snap crackers and little tin horns from 
the branches. There was one of a kind for each ex- 
cited guest. 

‘‘Wish there were girls,'’ said Perry to Red, as 
they tugged at their respective ends of a snapper. 
“Then it’s more fun. They always act ’fraid cat, 
and scream when it goes off.” He unrolled the 
little cylinder of paper which had been concealed 
in the foil wrapping. “My hat’s pink. What’s 
yours ? ” 

Cornucopias came next, four to a boy. They 
donned their hats, and munched candy after candy 
silently while the candles burned low. At last Mr. 
Fletcher clapped his hands. 

“Form in line and march into the dining-room 
and back by the tree, five times, and blow hard as 
you can on your horns ! ” 

The procession started. Passers-by on the side- 
walk stopped and looked in through the lighted win- 
dow to see the cause of the disturbance. A flame 
sputtered as it burned perilously near a resinous 
twig. 

“ Halt ! ” called Mr. Fletcher. “ Everybody blow ! ” 


HE HAS A VERY HAPPY CHRISTMAS 


235 


The lower flames vanished two and three at a 
time. Those higher up followed more slowly. At 
last but one flickering beacon at the top of the tree 
remained to defy all the boys’ efforts. John’s father 
watched in amusement, then gathered him up in his 
arms. 

‘‘ Now, hard ! ” And the last candle went out. 

Mrs. Fletcher suggested “ Hot potatoes,” and the 
minutes sped joyously past until the telephone rang. 

‘‘Tell Perry to come home for supper,” was the 
message. That youngster slipped on his overcoat 
sulkily. 

“Wish’d there wasn’t any old telephones,” he 
snapped as he opened the door. 

His departure was a signal for a lull in the fes- 
tivities. Mrs. DuPree sent a servant over for Sid, 
and the other boys followed shortly, leaving the fam- 
ily to watch in the darkness beside the parlor grate. 
Mrs. Fletcher broke the silence. 

“ It’s been a beautiful Christmas,” she said softly. 
“A beautiful Christmas.” 

John nodded contentedly from his father’s knee. 
Again, the only sound to be heard in the room was 
the soft whick-whicker of the burning coal as the 
flames licked the chimney breast, or the occasional 
rustle of falling ash. Suddenly footsteps pounded 
up on the porch and the bell rang loudly. John 
opened the door, and Silvey came panting into the 
hallway with skates in one eager hand. 


236 


A SON OF THE CITY 


“Come on over to the lagoon with me/’ he 
shouted breathlessly. John looked at his mother. 

“How about your supper?” 

He shrugged his shoulders impatiently. Hadn’t 
he eaten enough candy for a dozen suppers ? 
“ Please let me go, Mother,” he concluded. “ Please. 
It’s Christmas ! ” 

There was no resisting such a plea. He flew up- 
stairs to resurrect his last year’s skates from the 
attic, and was back in a moment for his mittens and 
stocking cap. The door slammed as the two dog- 
trotted it down the street. At the corner, John 
slackened speed. 

“Are you sure there’s skating. Bill?” he asked. 
Never, so far back as he could remember, had the ice 
been in condition for the sport by December. 

Silvey nodded emphatically. “ Saw six fellows 
go by the house with skates on their shoulders. So 
I asked ’em.” 

They left the park gravel path, now flanked on 
either side by leafless shrubbery, and struck out over 
the hard macadam of the road. As they reached the 
board walk leading to the warming house on the 
boat landing, John strained his eyes eagerly ahead. 

“There is, oh, there is,” he cried as the long tile 
roof by the boat house came in sight. “ I can see 
’em.” 

They spurted and pulled up at the skating house 
doors. A moment later they were in the crowded. 


HE HAS A VERY HAPPY CHRISTMAS 


237 


brightly lighted interior. Directly beneath the apex 
of the roof, ran a lunch counter which divided the 
place into a section for men, and another for women, 
escorted or not, as the case might be. Long, wooden 
benches ran along each wall, all filled with a con- 
stantly shifting occupancy. John seized the first 
available seat and drew on his skates. A stamping 
on the hacked, wooden floor to make sure that the 
steel runners were locked firmly, a wobbly interval 
as he stepped out and sought control of his ankles, 
a momentary pause on the steps, and he was out on 
the ice, with Silvey following. They executed a 
few maneuvers and sat down on the boat landing. 

‘‘Ice is great,’’ said Bill, as he tightened a skate 
strap. “Doesn’t it feel funny, though?” 

John nodded and stood up again. “Beat you 
around the island,” he challenged. 

No sooner said than they were off. Silvey ’s new 
skates cut the ice cleanly at every stroke, while his 
chum’s duller pair skidded and slid now and then 
as he gained headway. Along the narrowing, west 
pond, past helpless beginners whose efforts not to 
appear ridiculous made them doubly so, past staid 
business men, past arm-linked couples from the uni- 
versity dormitories, and out on the thirty- foot path 
of scraped ice which encircled the island. There 
Silvey slowed up. 

“Getting bumpy,” he cautioned. “Watch out!” 

The warning came too late. John’s skate sank to 


238 


A SON OF THE CITY 


his shoe sole in a crack and sent him sprawling. He 
stood up shakily and rubbed a bruised knee. 

‘‘First fall, first fall,” yelled Bill as he turned 
back. “ Hurt much ? ” 

John shook his head and started off again bravely. 
They got into the swing of it as they swept under 
the second island bridge and out on the last lap of 
the course. Faster and faster their legs flew over 
the ice as they dodged cracks with more certainty. 
Skater after skater was left behind, often by a hair’s- 
breadth margin of safety which evoked half-heard 
protests as they skimmed on. 

“Almost there,” shouted Bill as he increased his 
efforts to the utmost. 

“Tie,” yelled John as he shot over and grabbed 
an arch of the northern bridge to stop his momentum. 
“Look at the crowd. What’s happened?” 

They skated slowly over and around until they 
found a thin space in the human circle which allowed 
them a view of proceedings. 

“ Fancy skaters,” whispered Bill. “ Look at him 
write his name on the ice.” 

“ And the medals on his sweater. Gee, don’t you 
wish you were him ? ” 

A voice broke in on them. 

“Scatter there, scatter.” The policeman forced 
his way to the center. “You’re blocking the way 
to the skating house. Keep moving ! ” 

In obedience to the majesty of the law, the boys 


HE HAS A VERY HAPPY CHRISTMAS 


239 


skated off and found a secluded, smooth bit of ice 
nearer shore. There, John tried to cut a shaky “ J ” 
on the ice and fell over backwards. Shortly after- 
ward, Silvey met with a similar fate, and the boys 
looked at each other despondently. Both pairs of 
ankles were aching badly from the unaccustomed 
exercise, but neither wanted to admit it. Silvey 
loosened one of his skate straps. 

Got your watch, John ? 

It showed a quarter past nine. ‘‘Our mothers’ll 
be waiting for us,” he said. Thus a way to honor- 
able retreat was found. 

They stamped stiffly back to the warming house 
and took off their skates. John held his numbed 
fingers as near to the glowing coal stove in the center 
of the room as he dared, while Bill studied the age- 
stained menu over the lunch counter. 

“My treat,” he said, as he drew a bright half- 
dollar from his pocket. “ What’ll you have ? ” 

John ordered his favorite, mince pie; his host, a 
cut of half-baked apple. They washed the food 
down with a glass of cider apiece, and stumbled out 
on the board walk toward home. 

“Feel’s funny, walking after you’ve had skates 
on,” John commented as they trudged along the dark 
path. Silvey spoke up, “ Say, John.” 

“Yes?” 

“ You know Sid DuPree ? ” 

He nodded. 


240 


A SON OF THE CITY 


“Well, he’s trying to cut you out with Louise. 
Saw her in the corner drug store with him, drinking 
ice cream sodas.” 

John’s foot caught in a piece of loosened turf at 
the edge of the gravel walk. Otherwise, he gave no 
sign that he had heard. 

“ Aren’t mad because I told you, are you ? ” 

“No.” 

His paper route had kept him too busy to give 
the attention due her, but if Louise were inclined 
to succumb to the blandishments of ten-cent sodas 
at a drug store, he was glad to know it. Such inci- 
dents might result in disaster for the great plan if 
allowed to run unhindered. 

“ Feel’s like a thaw,” said Bill, trying to rouse his 
chum from the revery into which his announcement 
had plunged him. 

Again John nodded. Indeed there was a curious 
softness in the air. Perhaps the promise of a long 
skating season was to prove false after all. But he 
must see Louise, the very moment of her return. 
Then Sid had better watch out. 

He was at his front steps before he realized it. 

“Good night,” called Silvey, as he turned for 
home. 

“ Good night,” replied John a trifle wearily. And 
with the same feeling of morose taciturnity, a 
strange mood on this of all nights, he undressed and 
crept into bed. 


CHAPTER XII 


IN WHICH THE PATH OF TRUE LOVE DOES NOT RUN 
SMOOTHLY 

T>UT the softness in the Christmas air did not 
presage a thaw. When Mrs. Fletcher closed 
the windows in her son’s room the following morn- 
ing, and laid her hand on his motionless shoulder, 
she awakened him with a greeting of, ‘‘ Come, son, 
look out and see what’s happened.” 

Snow! A veil of fine, driving flakes scurried 
groundward with each gust of wind from the lake 
and half hid the passenger-laden suburban trains, 
and the ramshackle dairy buildings across the tracks. 
Already the cinder-laden railroad embankment was 
covered with a white mantle, too new as yet to be 
anything but spotless, which in places had drifted 
across the rows of rails. Along the street, each 
smoke-tinged roof and window ledge had a share 
of the rapidly deepening coverlet which sped from 
the leaden clouds to mask the gray, unlovely earth. 

John drew on his knickerbockers hurriedly. No 
time for a peep at one of his new books now. Not 
only was the snow a thing of beauty, but it offered 
certain revenue if he and Bill appeared with their 
shovels before competition became too keen. So he 
241 


242 


A SON OF THE CITY 


appeared in the dining-room with surprising prompt- 
ness. 

“ Sick, John ? asked his mother with gentle sar- 
casm, as he sat down to breakfast. 

He shook his head as he gulped down spoonful 
after spoonful of the steaming oatmeal. Now and 
then he glanced out of the window at the walks and 
porches of the street. They were still untouched, 
but there was need of haste. 

“Never mind the potatoes. Mother,” he said, as 
he hurried to the coat closet for his wraps. “ I’m 
going shovelling.” 

He ran down into the basement and was out and 
down the street with the wooden shovel over his 
shoulder before Mrs. Fletcher realized that he had 
escaped. She hailed him back. 

“How about our walk, son?” she asked, as she 
stood in the doorway. 

He shook his head in protest. “ I don’t get paid 
for that. Bill and I’ll do it when we get through.” 

“ Not much ! ” There was decision in his moth- 
er’s tones. “ That means it won’t be cleaned before 
noon.” 

“Aw-w-w, Mother!” 

The door closed and put a stop to further parley- 
ing. He stood by the lamppost, undecided as to 
which course to pursue. Should he walk boldly off 
and take the consequences, or was discretion the bet- 
ter part of valor after all? Still, when a fellow’s 


PATH OF LOVE DOES NOT RUN SMOOTHLY 243 


mother wanted something done, it was useless to try 
to evade the task, and he was just beginning to real- 
ize it. 

He set to work. Before long the cheerful scraping 
of the wooden shovel against the pavement restored 
his good humor. His face became flushed, and he 
stopped a moment to pull his stocking cap back from 
his hot forehead, for the exercise was making his 
blood circulate rapidly. The long walk which led 
to the back door could be skipped, and the porch rail- 
ings left snow-capped as they were, for his aim was 
to fulfill the barest letter of his orders before Mrs. 
Fletcher looked out of the window. 

Five minutes later, he knocked the snow from his 
shovel, and sneaked up the street, slipping now and 
then as his feet struck concealed ice on the walk, 
and once he fell sideways into a soft drift. As he 
walked up the Silvey steps, a snowball hit him on the 
leg, and another sped past his nose. He turned to 
find Bill on the lawn with a snowball in one hand. 

Surrender,’’ came the call. 

John dropped his shovel to the floor and seized a 
handful of snow. 

Going to fight or get snow jobs with me?” 
he asked, as he pounded the mass into an uneven 
sphere. 

For an answer, his chum dropped his missile and 
ran around to the back yard, to reappear with his 
own shovel. He pointed down the street. Two 


244 


A SON OF THE CITY 


members of the unemployed were making the snow 
fly at the DuPree’s with an earnestness which boded 
ill for their youthful competitors. 

‘‘ Let’s try Southern Avenue,” said John. ** Per- 
haps there won’t be anyone there.” 

No sooner said than done. But as they rounded 
the corner, they found that three of the “Jeffer- 
sons” had organized an expedition of their own 
and were cleaning the walk and porch of the 
house nearest the corner. Their leader motioned 
to Bill. 

** Go on back home, or we’ll smash your faces in.” 

John promptly stuck out his tongue. ‘‘ They can’t 
fight,” he said scornfully, “ and two of ’em are ’fraid 
cats. Let’s try the big yellow house. Bill.” 

With a glance back at the foe, they ran up the 
steps and rang the bell persistently until a becapped, 
flustered servant opened the door. 

“Ask the missis if she wants the walk cleaned?” 
said Silvey, who usually handled the negotiations for 
work. 

Scraps of conversation floated down to the boys 
from the upper regions whence the girl had disap- 
peared with the message. Presently she came to the 
head of the stairs and called down to them, “ How 
much you want ? ” 

Bill made a mental inventory of the appearance 
of the grounds as the boys had approached the house. 
“ Quarter,” he said promptly. 


PATH OF LOVE DOES NOT RUN SMOOTHLY 245 


‘‘ Missis, she say * all right,’ ” said the maid. 

The boys stamped out of the hallway and set to 
work with a will. Silvey began at one end of the 
broad veranda floor, while John made the snow fly 
from the railings and porch posts. Next came the 
steps, and the walk leading down the lawn. 

‘‘ This won’t take long,” said John optimistically. 

He stooped to fix a shoelace which had become 
untied. Silvey yielded to temptation and gave 
him a shove into the heaped snow, to have him 
rise angrily and dig the half-thawed slush from 
between his neck and collar. Then he sprang at 
his partner and they went sprawling again, but 
this time. Bill was the underdog. The two boys 
struggled for a while until John sat heavily on his 
foe’s stomach, and pinioned the resistant arms 


with his knees. Then the fun 


‘Going to be good ? ” 
Silvey looked 

h j A 1 i. 




0 snow held high 
above his head. 


desperately up at 
the handful of 


246 


A SON OF THE CITY 


“Look, here, Fletch — don’t you wash my face, 
don’t you — ” 

“Going to be good?” asked John again. 

His answer was a wrench for freedom. Thud, 
came a soft mass down on Bill’s nose and open 
mouth. He spluttered and rolled over desperately, 
trying to throw John from his vantage point. The 
front door creaked, and an alien voice called, 

“Whafs the matter, you boys? Ain’t you ever 
going to get finished ? ” 

They rose sheepishly to find the servant smiling 
down at them from the doorway. 

“ Missis says, ‘ hurry up,’ ” she cautioned them. 

Silvey picked up his shovel and began to make the 
snow fly industriously. Presently the fit of ardor 
wore off, and he stared thoughtfully at the long 
stretch of walk which still remained between the 
front porch and the back yard. 

“How much did I say we’d do this for?” he 
asked. 

“ Quarter,” said John, as he leaned on his shovel 
handle. 

“ Wished I’d made it thirty-five cents ! ” 

Foot by foot, they cleared a path well around by 
the side of the house. The milkman, the butcher, and 
the gas inspector had each left heavy footmarks 
which were difficult to remove and made progress 
slow. At the rear steps, a huge drift met their gaze, 
and Silvey stretched his aching arms. 


PATH OF LOVE DOES NOT RUN SMOOTHLY 247 


“What’d we say we’d do this for?” he asked 
again. 

‘‘ Quarter.” 

'^Wished I’d said half a dollar. There’s a walk 
on the other side, too.” 

No skylarking now. Their muscles ached too 
much from the exercise to waste their energy in 
other channels. When the cut through the drift had 
been made, and the back porch and basement walk 
freed of the covering. Bill leaned his shovel against 
a clothes-line post, and surveyed the result of their 
labors malevolently. 

“Next time we do this, John,” he snapped em- 
phatically, “ we’ll charge a whole dollar ! ” 

But the mischief had been done. By the time they 
had been paid the well-earned quarter, not a house 
near them offered prospect of employment. And at 
the far end of the street, the “ Jeffersons ” were mak- 
ing a last reconnoissance before deserting the neigh- 
borhood for more fruitful fields of labor. 

“ Now see what you did when you shoved me into 
the snow,” said John ruefully. 

“ Well, you didn’t have to wash my face,” retorted 
Bill. Secretly he was not sorry that the work was 
at an end. “ Get your new sled and we’ll go hitch- 
ing. Beat you over to our street.” 

They dashed up the nearest private walk into 
a residential back yard, and dropped their shovels 
over the back fence. John wedged one foot be- 


248 


A SON OF THE CITY 


tween a telegraph pole and a picket, and drew him- 
self up. 

‘‘ Come on, Sil.” 

Silvey braced himself for the spring. A rear 
window in the house creaked open and a woman’s 
head appeared. 

“What are you boys doing?” called the shrill 
voice. They dropped over into the other yard, and 
John started to run. 

“She’s in curl papers,” said Bill. “She won’t 
chase us. Let’s fix her.” 

“I’ll call the police if you go through again,” she 
persisted as the boys filled their hands with snow. 
John gave a few finishing pats to his missile. 

“ How’d you like to have her for a mother?” he 
asked his chum, as he drew his arm back for the 
assault. 

A projectile broke against the window sash and 
showered snow fragments upon the untidy hair. A 
second went a serene way through the opening and 
dissolved in a blot of hissing water on the kitchen 
stove. The frame slammed to with a violence which 
threatened destruction to the window glass, and 
John grabbed his shovel with an exultant yell. 

“ Now run like the dickens ! ” 

They parted at the Silvey s’. John continued on a 
dogtrot towards home, and a moment later was 
pestering Mrs. Fletcher at her work in the kitchen. 

“ Where’s some rope. Mother ? ” 


PATH OF LOVE DOES NOT RUN SMOOTHLY 249 


She looked from the pile of napkins on the ironing 
board. “ What do you want it for, son ? ’’ 

My sled.’’ 

She walked over to a box behind the kitchen gas 
range and drew out a three- foot length. ‘‘ Will this 
do?” 

‘‘ No. Got to be lots longer than that.” 

‘‘You’re not going hitching, are you?” 

He shook his head dubiously. 

“ Now, John ! There have been little boys killed 
because wagons ran over them when their ropes 
broke and they couldn’t get out of the way!” 

He evaded his mother’s eye and sneaked from the 
house. Silvey was waiting for him impatiently on 
the front walk. 

“Where’s the line?” he asked. 

“Can’t go,” complained John. “She won’t let 
me.” 

“Aw, come on. We’ll go over to Southern Ave- 
nue and she won’t know a thing about it. I’ll get 
you a rope from our house.” 

His feeble scruples vanished. A five-minute stop 
at the Silveys sufficed to make the necessary altera- 
tions in John’s equipment. Bill brought out his 
own sled, and they started for the corner. In 
front of the grocery store, they found Pete, the 
wagon boy, placing the last of the noon orders in 
his cart. 

“Give us a hitch,” they begged. 


250 


A SON OF THE CITY 


He nodded a cheery consent. But hurry. These 
have got to be delivered in time for dinner.’^ 

The boys ran the ropes rapidly around the rear 
axle and jumped on the sleds. A shout, a sudden 
jerk, and they were off, swinging around the corner 
on Southern Avenue with a momentum which shot 
them far to one side. John drew a breath of relief, 
for it was his first experience at the sport. Bill 
looked up from between the sled runners and 
grinned. 

Along they sped. The smooth steel slid easily 
now over the closely packed snow in the wagon ruts, 
now over bumps which forced involuntary grunts 
from between their lips. As the horse increased his 
pace they tightened their grasp on the sled hand- 
holes. 

“ Whoa,’’ shouted Pete. The wagon stopped 
abruptly as he reached back into the body for a pack- 
age, and the sleds shot under the wagon almost up 
to the horse’s hoofs, before the boys could find a 
holding place in the hard snow for their toes. 

John dragged his sled out, and lay back on it while 
he waited for Pete to reappear. The sun had pierced 
the heavy clouds, and dazzled the eyes of the neigh- 
borhood with glistening reflections on the white, un- 
sullied lawns and doorsteps. On the more exposed 
portions of the closely packed house roofs, the melt- 
ing snow formed long, dagger-like icicles which 
hung from the eaves, or clustered thickly around 


PATH OF LOVE DOES NOT RUN SMOOTHLY 251 


drain pipes and gutters. The heel-packed lumps 
which had defied the efforts of the wooden shovels 
to remove them from the cement walks showed dark, 
water-marked edges under the influence of the warm- 
ing rays. Near him in the street, a flock of hungry 
sparrows fought boldly over a bit of vegetable which 
had fallen from a passing fruit vender’s cart, and in 
the clear, dancing air was a touch of elixir which set 
his pulses to throbbing. 

“Yes,” he said, although Silvey had asked no 
question, “it’s just peachy.” 

“ Isn’t it ? ” acquiesced Bill. “ And your mother’s 
afraid you’ll get hurt, doing it.” 

The smile vanished. What if Mrs. Fletcher 
should find out! The joys of the sport, sweeter 
through their illegality, were not sufficient to pre- 
vent a sinking sensation in his stomach at the thought 
of such a catastrophe. 

There came a scurry of footsteps on the walk 
close by him, another caution from Pete and his sled 
rope tightened again. They drove from one street 
to another, working ever westward until the gray- 
stone, red-roofed buildings of the university were 
behind them. When but a package of steak, bread, 
or a similar trifle was to be delivered, John or Bill 
dashed aVound to the back porch or through a base- 
ment flat areaway, while the driver sat and smoked 
in state on his seat. Thus the arrangement was of 
mutual benefit to the parties concerned. 


252 


A SON OF THE CITY 


At last they halted before a dingy, eight-flat apart- 
ment building. Pete carried the last, and heaviest, 
consignment of edibles in to its owner and returned, 
a moment later, to stand on the curbing with a kindly 
smile on his heavy- featured face. 

“ Now, boys,” he said, as he drew his cap 
down over his ears and forehead until the peak 
nearly met his black, bushy brows, hang on tight, 
and I’ll give you a real ride back.” 

A flick at the ribs of the fat, easy-going horse, and 
the two sleds were flying homeward. The depres- 
sions and hoof marks in the snow flew between the 
runners at a speed which dizzied their owners. Bits 
of ice, dislodged by the horse’s hoofs, flew up and 
struck the boys’ faces stinging blows. Past the uni- 
versity buildings, past the school which now stood 
empty and deserted because of the Christmas holi- 
days, past impatient pedestrians on the street cor- 
ners, and over to Southern Avenue where Pete 
turned in abruptly to the alley entrance of the gro- 
cery store. Silvey screamed a warning as his sled, 
running straight ahead, felt the tug of the tow rope, 
and skidded in a wide circle over the rough, uneven 
snow. John tried to save himself from a similar 
fate, but he had delayed too long. Straight for a 
huge snow bank, the two sleds headed, struck the 
curbing, and capsized with their owners under- 
neath. 

John rose shakily with an uncertain smile on his 


PATH OF LOVE DOES NOT RUN SMOOTHLY 253 



grocer’s clock showed a quarter after twelve, so they 
started for the home street. As they parted, John 
held up a detaining hand. 

“That quarter,” he explained. “Come on back 
to the drug store and get it changed. I want to put 
my share in the pig bank.” 

Silvey drew off one moist mitten, and fumbled 
in his trouser’s pockets with a perplexed frown. 
Neither was it in his coat, nor in his blouse. Where 
had it been left? 

“ S’pose we lost it when we took that spill ? ” 

There was another fruitless search before the boys 
went back to the grocery corner. There, they raked 
the snow bank over and over, levelled and reheaped 
it, and levelled it again before their ardor cooled. 


254 


A SON OF THE CITY 


At last they were convinced that the coin was hope- 
lessly lost. John turned away moodily. 

“Come on,” he said. “Fll be getting scolded if 
I don’t get home for dinner.” It was hard to lose 
the proceeds of a morning’s work in such a manner. 

Mrs. Fletcher was waiting for him when he came 
into the hallway, stamping his feet lustily to free 
them from the last lingering traces of snow. 

“Where’s the brush, Mother?” he asked, as he 
shook his coat. She brought him the implement and 
watched him keenly. 

“Didn’t I forbid you to go hitching, this morn- 
ing?" 

“Who told you?” he asked naively, taken aback 
at the sudden accusation. Mothers had the most 
mysterious ways of discovering things. 

She smiled in spite of herself. “ I asked the little 
Mosher boy where you were and he said he’d seen 
you riding off behind Anderson’s grocery wagon. 
What do you think I ought to do to such a disobedi- 
ent little boy?” 

He didn’t know. But he wished that he might lay 
hands on that kid brother of Skinny’s. He’d teach 
him a thing or two about holding his tongue. 

“ You’re getting too big to spank,” she commented 
as he stood silently before her. He nodded a cheer- 
ful assent to this. 

“ So I think you’d better stay in the house this 
afternoon.” 


PATH OF LOVE DOES NOT RUN SMOOTHLY 255 


'' A-w-w-w, Mother ! ’’ 

She went into the dining-room where the table 
had been set for the noonday meal for two, and 
heaped his plate with potatoes and gravy, while he 
stood looking miserably out of the window. 

The sun’s rays were melting the surface of the 
snow and turning it a dirty gray. Up the street. 
Perry Alford was winging snowballs at a black, 
leafless trunk opposite his house. That meant good 
packing, and snow fights, snow men, and a baker’s 
dozen of other exciting amusements. 

To be gated on such an afternoon! 

‘‘Come, son!” said Mrs. Fletcher, as he turned 
away with quivering lip, and drew his chair to the 
table. “Be a man. Mother’s right about it, isn’t 
she?” 

He admitted that her sentence was but justice, 
and attacked the dinner with an appetite which no 
sorrow could diminish. Then he tramped slowly up 
to his room and threw himself down on his bed with 
a book to while away the weary stretch of afternoon 
confronting him. 

Straightway the centuries rolled back, and the 
present day sorrows were forgotten. The times of 
the good king Alfred held sway as he followed the 
exploits of the hero against his Danish enemies with 
breathless interest. Again and again did the young 
earldorman’s well-drilled band sally forth from its 
stronghold to attack larger bodies of the foe, and 


256 


A SON OF THE CITY 


again and again did the boy on the bed wish that he 
was living in those soul-stirring times. Then came 
the building of the Dragon, for war must be waged 
on the sea as well as by land, and a call of, “Oh, 
John-e-e-e-e ! Oh, John-e-e-e-e ! 

He stood up regretfully. One of his legs was 
cramped from lying motionless so long, and he 
limped into the front room. Silvey was below on 
the water-streaked walk. 

“ Come on out ! ’’ 

“Can’t. She found out about my hitching this 
morning.” 

“Aw-w-w, come on. The fellows are building 
a snow fort in the big lot, and pretty soon, we’re 
going to have a big fight.” He reached down, 
scooped up a handful of the moist snow, and patted 
it easily into a small, hard ball. “Look, packing’s 
fine. Go down and tease her ! ” 

John shook his head. Mother was inexorable 
on such occasions, and never had there been a time 
on record, no matter what the weeping or wailing, 
when a gating had been lifted. So he would meet 
his punishment without further ado. 

Silvey went disconsolately back towards home, 
and the prisoner returned to his room and stared 
from the window which overlooked the railroad 
tracks. Presently he turned away and rummaged 
in the bureau in the big south room until he found 
his mother’s opera glasses. A moment or so of ad- 


PATH OF LOVE DOES NOT RUN SMOOTHLY 257 


justment, and he smiled contentedly. If he could not 
be a participant, he would at least witness the battle. 

The construction of the fort was well under way. 
Long, erratic paths in the snow showed where the 
three big balls had been rolled which formed the 
most exposed wall. They were almost as tall as the 
boys, themselves, and even now Sid and Red Brown 
and Perry Alford were digging their heels into the 
slippery footing as they moved a fourth to its proper 
place. Mosher, bent almost double, was rolling a 
new and rapidly increasing sphere over the soft 
snow. The walls completed, the gang devoted them- 
selves to filling in the crevices, smoothing the sur- 
face, and to testing the weak places in the fortress. 
A few busy minutes were spent in making ammuni- 
tion, then Sid, his longing for leadership gratified at 
last, led his army behind the U ” shaped protection. 
Bill beckoned his followers out of range, and missiles 
began to fly. John laid the glasses down wistfully. 

Shucks! watching only made him want to join 
worse than ever. The book was better than that ! 

Dusk came at last, and liberation. As he was re- 
turning from the newspaper route, the sight of a 
familiar figure, in the lighted circle of a street lamp, 
made him cross over. It was Louise. 

’Lo.’’ 

To.’’ 

John paused. It was a difficult thing to lead up 
to her faithlessness tactfully. She broke the silence. 


258 


A SON OF THE CITY 


“ Those dishes were dear. But, oh, John, I liked 
the powder puff jar the best of all!” Which w^as 
the truth, for the fact that he thought her old enough 
for such feminine weapons was a soul-satisfying 
compliment. 

He murmured a perfunctory acknowledgment. 

Louise, what's this Fve been hearing about you 
and Sid drinking sodas together at the drug store? ” 

She stood speechless, thinking of a defense. 

‘‘ It's got to quit. Do you hear ? '' 

‘‘Why shouldn't I have sodas with him?” his 
lady broke out vindictively. “You never take me 
anywhere.” 

Didn’t she understand that all of his playtime was 
taken up with earning money for her ? “ But we can 
go skating tonight,” he concluded pacifically. 

“That isn't spending money on me. And Sid 
does, lots and lots of times.” 

The words hurt. He’d show her that two could 
play at that game, even if the funds were to be drawn 
from the pig bank. 

“ I’ll tell you,” he shot back recklessly. “ We’ll 
go to the theater a week from Saturday. Isn’t that 
better than sodas?” He watched her anxiously for 
she was most dear to his suddenly constant heart. 

She assented eagerly. Nevertheless, it was plain 
that she still thirsted after the drug store flesh pots. 
He must interview Sid in the morning, for that 
catch in her voice was far from reassuring. 


CHAPTER XIII 


HE CRUSHES AND HUMILIATES A RIVAL 

O ID, with new skates glistening at his side, was 
^ bound for the park lagoon when John ran across 
the street and stopped him. 

‘‘ Come along? ” asked Sid amicably. John shook 
his head. 

^‘1 want to talk to you,” said he. “Bill says 
you’re trying to cut me out with Louise. It’s got to 
stop.” 

“ What’s he know about it ? ” asked the culprit 
defiantly. 

“And Louise told me you’d taken her up to the 
drug store.” 

Sid shrugged his shoulders. “ Guess I’ve a right 
to. What have you got to say about it ? ” 

“Well,” said John slowly, “She’s my girl — ” 

Sid sneered. 

“ And we’re going to get married on the money 
from the paper route when I grow up and — ” 

“ Pooh ! ” Sid laughed unpleasantly. “ Go ahead 
and save your money. I don’t care. I’m spending 
mine — on her — and you can’t stop me either.” 

Money, money, money ! All he was hearing 
these days was about spending, not saving it, and 
25& 


260 


A SON OF THE CITY 


Sid’s words, as had his lady’s, riled him not a 
little. 

“ I’m going to take her out, too,” he shot back. 
‘‘Won’t be a cheap thing like sodas, either. We’re 
going to the theater, we are, and then she’ll promise 
not to speak to you any more. If she won’t. I’ll 
punch your face in, first time I catch you.” 

“Theater!” said Sid, so impressed that the con- 
cluding threat passed unheeded. 

“ Going to buy the tickets, this afternoon,” John 
boasted. “ Main floor seats at the ‘ Home’ — seven- 
ty-five cents each! Don’t you wish you were go- 
ing?” 

Sid’s skates slipped from his shoulder into the 
snow. He picked them up and looked at John un- 
certainly. 

“That’ll cost a lot of money, won’t it?” he 
asked. 

“ Most two dollars,” magnificently. 

“Let’s take her together, then. I’ll pay half the 
carfare and the seats.” 

John thought a moment. The plan possessed cer- 
tain advantages. He would be able to observe how 
Louise acted with Sid, for one; and if he didn’t 
consent, that persistent rival would take her later, 
anyway, which would be a thousand times worse. 
Besides, the prospect of two hard-earned dollars 
being frittered away for an evening’s entertainment 
had been far from pleasing. 


HE CRUSHES AND HUMILIATES A RIVAL 261 


The tickets are for a week from Saturday/^ he 
said slowly. Want me to get you one? ” 

Sid nodded and dug into his pocket for a handful 
of Christmas change. He passed over a dollar and 
twelve cents to John, and left for the lagoon. 

Half a dozen times as the street car bounced west- 
ward over the uneven track, John decided to tell 
Sid that, after all, the entertainment was for but 
two. He would probably spoil all the fun, anyway, 
and then the evening would be a total failure. He 
was still undecided when he stepped up to the tawdry 
box office with its photographs of local theatrical 
stars. 

“ How many ? ” asked the man at the little win- 
dow. 

John drew out a coin from his pocket. Heads, 
Sid joined them; tails, he should be Louise’s sole 
escort. Heads it was. The fates had willed it; let 
the outcome be for good or ill. 

When he told of the arrangement at the family 
supper table, that evening, his parents choked. 

suppose,” said Mr. Fletcher, his voice still 
shaking with laughter, “ that you’ll sit, one on each 
side of the lady, and glare because she took the last 
piece of candy from the other fellow’s box.” 

Candy? Why, of course. The heroine of each 
of the novels he had read, was always receiving 
toothsome dainties and showers of roses from her 
many admirers. But he couldn’t afford both meth- 


262 


A SON OF THE CITY 


ods of expressing his devotion, and candy alone 
would have to do. This taking your best girl to a 
show promised to be far more expensive than he 
had thought. 

Need it be said that his shoes were veritable ebony 
mirrors, that eventful evening? Or that his ears 
were clean, even to the very recesses under the lobes ? 
And when such a thing occurs, you may be sure 
that Solomon in all his glory was arrayed no more 
immaculately than that small boy. 

He presented himself promptly at the door of the 
Martin flat at half-past seven. Louise was in her 
room while Mrs. Martin added the finishing touches 
to the party dress which she was wearing in honor 
of the occasion, so he shoved the two-pound box of 
dipped caramels, ordered in spite of paternal objec- 
tions, into his overcoat pocket and sat down in the 
big parlor rocker to wait. 

Shortly thereafter, Sid appeared with a tissue- 
wrapped bouquet of roses in his hand. “For 
Louise,’’ he told Mrs. Martin. 

John glared at him stolidly, and regretted his 
choice of candy. It would have taken a little of 
that confident smile away, if his rival had found 
himself antedated by a gift of a similar nature. 

A quarter of an hour later found them bouncing 
along over the same car line which John had used 
on the ticket quest. The conveyance was poorly 
heated, but the children were too excited to notice 


HE CRUSHES AND HUMILIATES A RIVAL 263 


the cold. Louise was wearing two of the roses on 
her frock, and Sid was in high spirits accordingly. 

“Ever been out West, Louise?” he asked with a 
side glance at John. The lady shook her head. 

“I was, all last vacation — real ranch, real cow- 
boys. Used to take pony rides every day.” 

John sketched a caricature on the frosty window 
pane and sulked in silence. Why didn’t his folks 
make enough money to take him on such summer 
jaunts? Then he wouldn’t have to sit like a dummy 
and listen to his rival out-talk him with the one girl 
he cared anything about. 

“And walk?” continued Sid, secure in his ro- 
mancing, now that he knew that neither of his audi- 
tors had been beyond the Mississippi. “Why, the 
air’s so fine that you can walk ever so far without 
feeling tired. Breakfast at the ranch was at seven, 
and once, I walked twenty miles just to get up an 
appetite for it.” 

“ That’s nothing,” John snapped moodily. “ I 
walked thirty miles before breakfast, once, too. It 
was right here in the city.” 

“What?” gasped Sid, scarcely believing his 
ears. 

“Yes,” assented John cheerfully. “It was in 
the afternoon before, but that didn’t make any dif- 
ference. It was before breakfast, wastn’t it?” 

Louise giggled. Sid kicked against the wicker 
seat cushion in front of him and was silent. John 


264 


A SON OF THE CITY 


rubbed a clear spot on the frost-etched car window 
and peered into the outer darkness. 

Next block’s ours,” he grinned, still elated at the 
success of his thrust. “ Come on, Louise.” 

They scrambled wildly for the door. Sid was the 
first in the street and helped the lady down from the 
high car-step, while John drew the tickets from his 
coat pocket and led the way to the brilliantly lighted 
theater lobby. Louise’s eyes glistened with excite- 
ment as the trio stopped to look at the posters be- 
side the doorway. 

“Martha, the Milliner’s Girl,” Sid read slowly 
from the huge letters at the top of the bulletin 
board. 

“Peach of a show,” John commented, as they 
walked past the line of people waiting their turn 
at the box office. “ Six folks killed, and shooting 
and everything. I asked the man when I bought the 
seats.” 

A uniformed usher led them impressively to 
their places and presented them with programs. 
John stooped over his fiancee and helped her off 
with her coat as he leered at Sid. That gentle- 
man leaned easily back in the upholstered theater 
chair. 

“Nice seats,” he remarked with a touch of con- 
descension. “ A little near the stage [the words had 
been Mrs. DuPree’s, once upon a time], but they’ll 
do.” 


HE CRUSHES AND HUMILIATES A RIVAL 265 


“ I like ’em/’ John snapped angrily. Louise 
acquiesced. Sid scowled and fell back upon the wild 
and woolly West as a means of maintaining the con- 
versational upper hand. 

Once I went hunting, last summer ” — he began. 
John glanced at his watch. Ten minutes before the 
performance would begin; ten long, dragging min- 
utes of Sid’s talk about a place of which he knew 
nothing. Why had he brought his voluble rival 
along? — ‘‘hunting for bear,” continued the nar- 
rator. “ Lots of fun, Louise. One of the cowboys 
took me with him ’way up a mountain. We went 
into a big, dark forest with palms — ” 

“ Palms don’t grow out West,” John interrupted 
savagely. 

“Yes, they do.” 

“Geogerfy says they don’t.” 

“ This was a part the geogerfies don’t know any- 
thing about,” serenely. “ Ever been out there ? ” 

“No,” reluctantly. 

“ Then keep quiet. I have. Well, there were the 
palms and — ” 

Was there to be no respite from the steady flow? 
John suddenly remembered the candy, and reached 
for his overcoat. 

“ Oh,” exclaimed Louise, as the white, pink- 
stringed box was brought forth. Sid stopped, ob- 
viously disconcerted. John unwrapped the dainties 
and threw the paper on the floor. 


266 


A SON OF THE CITY 


'‘Have some?” he asked as he lifted the cover. 

The lady’s lips closed over a chocolate-covered 
caramel. Sid’s did likewise. John helped himself 
to a third and leaned back happily. At last a way 
of silencing his adversary had been found. 

Conversation was temporarily impossible, so the 
trio gazed eagerly around them. Just ahead, sat a 
shop girl in a shabby best dress, with a head of 
blonde, mismatched hair, and beside her, her escort, 
an Irish mechanic, who shifted his head from time 
to time as the unaccustomed collar scraped his neck. 
Across the aisle was a family of towheaded Swedes, 
the father self-conscious in his carefully pressed 
black suit; the mother, watchful of her two mis- 
chievous, blue-eyed urchins. Young gallants of the 
neighborhood filled the boxes at either side of the 
auditorium, taking this, the most expensive, means 
of proving their devotion to their lady loves. In 
the rear of 
theater were the 
first and 
balconies, occu 
pied by voluble 
men and wo- 
men of all 

ages and na- Silencing his adversary. 

tionalities. Ahead, hung the stage curtain, deco- 
rated with staring advertisements, “ Lamson, the 
neighborhood undertaker,” “Trade at the corner 



HE CRUSHES AND HUMILIATES A RIVAL 267 


grocery. Vegetables always at the lowest market 
prices,” ‘‘ Snider’s drug store, prescriptions, choice 
candies, and camera supplies,” and the like. From 
somewhere in the heights came a sharp “rap-rap- 
rap,” which echoed even to the more forward rows 
on the main floor. 

“Gallery,” explained John. “Fellow knocks on 
the back of one of the benches to make the boys be- 
have.” His jaws resumed the burden of reducing 
that persistent caramel to a swallowable state. 

The orchestra of five filed solemnly in through the 
little door beneath the stage and took their accus- 
tomed places. A dart, propelled by an urchin of 
the upper regions who evidently had no fear of the 
monitor’s stick, sailed serenely downward and found 
a resting place in a blonde lock of the salesgirl’s hair. 
The footlights flashed on, and the musicians struck 
up a lilting, popular air, as Sid cleared his throat. 

“Then the cowboy — ” he began. 

“ Have another ? ” interrupted John, extending the 
box of tenacious goodies. 

“ Sh-h,” whispered Louise. “ There goes the cur- 
tain.” 

Why Martha had selected the hapless vocation of 
milliner’s apprentice, John could not understand. 
For it was in Madame’s little millinery shop in New 
York that Mordaunt Merrilac, gentleman by appear- 
ance, and leader of a desperate band of counter- 
feiters, met and became infatuated with the heroine. 


268 


A SON OF THE CITY 


This he revealed in a soliloquy punctuated by fre- 
quent tugging at his black mustache, and strode ma- 
jestically to the rear of the long, gloomy basement 
in which the first act was laid. There he joined 
three overalled mechanics in shirtsleeves, who put- 
tered gingerly about a table on which were mysteri- 
ous vats and a brightly glowing electric crucible. 

“ Is all in readiness ? ’’ growled Mordaunt. 

‘‘ Aye, master.’’ 

‘‘ Into the acid vat with the plate, then.” He drew 
out a jewelled watch and studied the dial with 
knitted brows. ‘‘Ten long minutes before we know 
of our success.” 

A muffled scream, long-drawn and filled with ter- 
ror, broke in upon the silence which followed. 
Louise, Sid, and John leaned anxiously forward on 
the very edges of their seats. 

“What’s that?” gasped the tallest of the work- 
men. 

“’Tis nothing,” sneered the villain. “Come, 
Ralph, draw out the die.” 

The group gathered anxiously around the bit of 
metal. Mordaunt scrutinized it carefully, and strode 
swiftly over to an opposite corner of the stage where 
an ancient letterpress stood. Running an inked 
roller over the surface of the etching, he placed it 
on the bed of the press, revolved the wheel rapidly 
in one direction, reversed, and drew forth a slip of 
white paper. 


HE CRUSHES AND HUMILIATES A RIVAL 269 


The face of a twenty-dollar bill to perfection,” 
he exclaimed as he examined the dark oblong at one 
end. ‘‘ Men, you may go.” 

Thus was the intricate process of counterfeiting 
depicted, and the audience, as audiences did in 
Shakespeare’s time when a sign represented a forest 
or a tree or a mountain, allowed its imagination to 
make the thing seem plausible. 

Mordaunt raised his voice. “ Dolores ! ” he 
called, once, twice, thrice. 

A tall, lithe creature in dark, clinging robes, with 
the black hair of all villains and villainesses, re- 
sponded. 

“Yes, brother?” she whined from the head of 
the basement stairway. 

“Bring me Martha.” 

The ogre had commanded, therefore the maiden 
was flung down the steps before him — slight, 
dainty, with a wealth of blonde hair, and a pitiful 
sob in her voice which drew a lump into John’s 
throat, willy-nilly. 

“ Let me go, oh, please let me go ! ” she wailed. 
Louise’s lower lip trembled sympathetically. Such 
a tender slip of a heroine to be at the mercy of such 
an unscrupulous monster ! 

“ Still stubborn, Martha ? ” Mordaunt snarled. 

The girl drew herself up proudly. Only her 
heaving bosom told of the physical struggle which 
had forced her into the basement den. John 


270 


A SON OF THE CITY 


could not help marvelling at her recuperative 
powers. 

‘‘ Still/’ she murmured with flashing eye. 

“ Think it over well,” the black mustachioed one 
persisted. “Am I so odious? Marriage with me 
means riches, girl, riches. And I would be kind to 
you.” 

She shook her head vehemently. “ Never, never, 
never would I marry a man who lives as you. 
Though you beat me, though you torture me 
[Louise’s eyes welled in spite of herself], never 
can you force me into such wedlock.” 

Hasty footsteps sounded at the head of the 
stairway. Ralph, the etcher, dashed down into the 
room. 

“The police!” he shrieked. “They are about 
to raid us ! ” 

Merrilac muttered a curse. “Take her away,” 
he growled to his sister of the clinging robes. “ Take 
her to your home by the secret passage.” He pressed 
a button and a panel in the wall swung back. “ Ralph 
and I must remain to destroy the die! Quick, on 
your life, be quick!” 

Would the police come in time? Nay, John and 
Sid and Louise, not yet. That would have ended the 
play in the first act. Dolores dragged the heroine 
away with her. Mordaunt swung the panel back 
into place and ran over to the table where the coun- 
terfeiting apparatus lay. 


HE CRUSHES AND HUMILIATES A RIVAL 271 


“Look you to your automatics!” he shouted. 
“And up with the trapdoor, Ralph. The acid vats 
must be hidden.” 

But the police were upon them as he spoke. Re- 
volvers cracked. Jack Harkness, blonde, curly 
haired, and of magnificent physique, let his firearm 
drop as he clapped his hand to a suddenly nerveless 
right arm. 

“I’m wounded,” he bellowed, “but after them! 
Let not that arch villain escape ! ” 

A bluecoat sprang forward, halted, and fell flat 
on his face. Ralph, a heroic sacrifice in spite of his 
guilt, intercepted a bullet meant for Mordaunt. 
Then the master counterfeiter, realizing that his 
cause was hopeless, raised a hand as a token of sur- 
render, and advanced slowly to receive the waiting 
handcuffs. As the policeman raised his hands to 
slip them on, he dashed suddenly past to the stair- 
way, and slammed the door behind him. A key 
squeaked in its little-used lock, and the representa- 
tives of the law stared at each other for one dazed, 
dragging moment. 

Suddenly Harkness flung his muscular form 
against the door again and again until it broke from 
its hinges. As his subordinates dashed up the stair- 
way in futile pursuit, he dallied in the bullet-marked 
room that he might walk to the center of the stage 
and wave his unwounded arm melodramatically. 

“ I will rescue her,” he vowed solemnly. “ I will 


272 


A SON OF THE CITY 


rescue my little Martha though the chase leads to 
the burning, sand-strewn deserts of Africa! 

There was tumultuous applause and the curtain. 
Louise leaned back in her seat with shining eyes. 
John drew a deep breath. 

“Isn’t it just peachy?” 

Sid DuPree nodded. “Makes me think of the 
way the cowboys used to shoot off their revolvers 
on the ranch.” 

“ Have another candy,” suggested John promptly. 
Again was the flow of reminiscences successfully 
checked. 

But the author of “ Martha, the Milliner’s Girl,” 
was too considerate of the welfare of his hero to 
lead him on an expensive trip to Africa; for that 
worthy, as are all such stage beings, was poor and 
otherwise honest. So the second act revealed a 
richly furnished room in Dolores’ apartment, not 
many miles away from the scene of act one. Martha 
threw herself on the luxuriously upholstered lounge 
in a paroxysm of sobs. Dolores entered, still clothed 
in dark, clinging robes. Entered also Mordaunt 
Merrilac, as beetling of brow as ever. Perfervid 
conversation ensued between the trio in which little 
Martha tearfully ordered the villain to release her. 

“ My detention here will avail you naught,” Mor- 
daunt Merrilac,” she quavered. “ In spite of all you 
can do, some day, my hero. Jack Harkness, will find 
this den and rescue me ! ” Prolonged handclapping 


HE CRUSHES AND HUMILIATES A RIVAL 273 


came from the more genteel portion of the audience, 
mingled with cheers and cat-calls from the gallery. 

The villain laughed sardonically. Still you hope 
for rescue by him ? ” 

“I do.’’ 

‘‘Then wait.” He pressed a convenient button. 
Through the heavily curtained doorway, closely 
guarded by the two remaining members of the gang, 
walked Jack Harkness. 

“Gee!” gasped John, consternation-struck by 
this new development. It was evident that the same 
stupidity which had allowed Merrilac to make his 
escape in the first act, had led this singularly wooden- 
headed hero into that villain’s trap. 

“ So, my proud beauty,” hissed Mordaunt, “ you 
expect this man to save you ? ’Tis futile. At twelve, 
tonight, we shall plunge him into the Hudson River, 
and you, Martha, shall see him die ! ” 

Whereupon Martha gave a piercing shriek, 
swooned, and the curtain fell. 

“ Crickets ! ” sighed John, as a prodigious bump- 
ing behind the lowered curtain told of scenery that 
was being shifted, “ I wish they’d hurry up.” Louise 
nodded silently, while the box of carmels lay neg- 
lected on her lap ; and for once during the evening, 
Sid could find no parallel for such thrilling events 
in the scenes of his last vacation trip. 

Almost before they realized it, the curtain rose 
again and revealed the hut on the Hudson. In one 


274 


A SON OF THE CITY 


corner of the dismal interior stood Jack Harkness, 
bound, but appropriately defiant. In the other, on 
the floor lay the weak, sobbing little heap that was 
Martha. In the center stalked a triumphant Mor- 
daunt with his two confederates. 

“ Jack Harkness,’' he hissed, “ your time has come. 
Men, throw back the trapdoor.” Ah, those ever- 
present trapdoors! 

He walked over to the opening. “The Hudson 
runs muddy tonight,” he murmured, as a shudder 
ran through the audience, “ and very cold. ’Tis well. 
Drag forth the prisoner and loose his bonds.” 

He stooped to jerk Martha to her feet. The 
rude door at the rear sprang open, and the police 
burst in upon the scene. The two counterfeiters 
sought for an escape, and Jack, sudden strength re- 
turning to his immobile limbs, sprang upon the 
startled Mordaunt. A terrific struggle ensued, and 
a tender scene between the two lovers as the police 
dragged their three captives from the stage. 

“At last, little Martha,” Harkness murmured as 
he looked down at her. 

“At last,” she murmured, gazing shyly into his 
face. Then came a long, passionate kiss — and the 
curtain. 

Sid sprang to his feet and helped Louise on with 
her coat, but John, stumbling after them up the aisle 
and out on the crowded street, neither noticed nor 
cared. The play triangle of two men and a maid 


HE CRUSHES AND HUMILIATES A RIVAL 275 


seemed strangely analogous to his own love affairs. 
Sid was Mordaunt Merrilac, Louise was little 
Martha, and he was the heroic Jack Harkness. 
Neither counterfeiters nor police would participate, 
but that did not diminish the tenseness of the situa- 
tion, nevertheless. He was roused from his revery 
by Sid’s voice as they came to the street car corner. 

Here’s a drug store, Louise. Let’s go in and 
have a soda.” 

Dreaming again, and Sid had stolen another 
march on him! He trailed sulkily in and the trio 
sat down in the little wire-backed chairs before a 
round, shiny table. The drug clerk came forward 
ceremoniously and stood beside them. 

‘‘My treat,” said Sid grandly. “What’ll you 
have, Louise?” 

She wasn’t certain. A feeling of dull resentment 
took possession of John. If Sid was going to act 
this way, he’d make it as costly an affair as possible. 

“ Chop-suey sundae,” he announced, after a hasty 
glance at the printed menu. 

“ What ? ” stammered Sid. Such a delicacy cost 
a whole quarter, the most expensive treat that the 
soda fountain purveyed. 

“ Yes,” said John calmly. “ Better take one, too, 
Louise,” he added maliciously. “They taste just 
peachy.” 

She accepted his suggestion gratefully. 

“Give me a glass of water,” ordered Sid weakly. 


276 


A SON OF THE CITY 


It is an awful thing to possess soda liabilities of fifty 
cents when you have but three dimes and two nickels 
in your pocket. 

John sensed his rival’s predicament and smiled. 
Slowly, with manifest enjoyment in every mouthful, 
he devoured the tempting, frozen treat. Then he 
leaned back in his chair contentedly and waited for 
Louise to finish. The white-coated soda clerk ap- 
proached the table for payment, and the terror 
which crept into Sid’s face was strangely like that 
on Mordaunt’s when the police had broken into the 
river hut. He drew out his inadequate supply of 
small change and looked at it blankly. 

‘‘ Come, boys,” prompted the man of syrups and 
sodawater, I can’t wait all day.” 

“ I haven’t enough money,” whispered Sid at last. 

John turned, a hint of the stage hero’s mannerisms 
in his dramatic gesture. ‘‘What? Invite us for 
a treat and then can’t pay for it? You’re a fine one, 
Sid.” He drew a half-dollar from his own pocket 
and flung it down on the table. “ Never mind him,” 
he turned to Louise. ‘‘ I’ll pay your car fare home ! ” 

And with the crushed and humiliated Sid follow- 
ing them miserably, he led the way from the drug 
store to the waiting car. 


CHAPTER XIV 


HE BUYS VALENTINES 

OID made one more effort to cope with Miss Mar- 
^ tin’s suddenly aggressive fiance. John came 
upon the couple one late, crisp January afternoon, 
as he was leaving for the paper route. Louise did her 
best to appear nonchalant as he picked his way care- 
fully across the slippery, wagon-rutted road, and 
Sid, after a longing glance toward the iron fence 
which surrounded the home lot, decided to brazen 
matters out. 

‘‘ ’Nother chop-suey sundae?” John sneered as he 
eyed his rival scornfully. 

‘‘ ’Tain’t fair, always talking about that,” blurted 
Sid. ‘‘How’d I know the money I’d need when I 
left home?” 

John deemed the excuse unworthy of notice, and 
turned to Louise. 

What’s he want this time ? ” 

“Go skating with him,” she replied after a mo- 
ment’s hesitation. 

“Then ask you to have a treat in the warming 
house, and let you pay for it ’cause he didn’t bring 
enough money. I’ll teach you to skate — tonight if 
your mother’ll let you. Silvey said the ice was fine 
277 


278 


A SON OF THE CITY 


yesterday, and everything’ll be peachy. Want to 
come ? ” 

What maiden wouldn’t? John glanced at his 
watch. The paper wagon was due in five minutes. 

‘‘ I’ve got to run,” he said hastily. “ See you to- 
night ! ” He left on the dogtrot for the corner. 

His school books eyed him reproachfully as he 
hunted for his skate straps after supper. An arith- 
metic test impended, and he had a composition to 
write. Nevertheless, he disregarded both tasks 
serenely and called for his lady. With her skates 
swinging with his over one shoulder, they started 
for the park. 

Ever been skating before? ” he asked casually as 
he took hold of her arm that she might pass a slip- 
pery bit of walk in safety. 

Louise shook her head. ‘‘Once a mud puddle 
froze in front of the house where I used to live, and 
I got a broom and tried. That’s all.” 

Then, for an instant, John regretted the invita- 
tion. To teach an absolute novice, no matter what 
the age, to skate with a passable degree of security 
is no light task. But his hesitation vanished, ten 
minutes later, when he fastened her skates on and 
helped her through the doorway of the warming 
house. It is no unpleasant thing for a small boy’s 
best girl to cling to his arm as did his when they 
walked, oh so cautiously, down the skate-chopped 
steps from the boat landing. 


HE BUYS VALENTINES 


279 


As they stepped out on the slippery ice, Louise 
made a last, despairing grab for the step rail. 

‘‘You go on and skate, Johnny,” she pleaded. 
“ ril iust stay here for a while.” 

Cl 



among the swiftly moving, ever changing ^ 
throng of people. In a moment he shot back to a 
less crowded space near her, where he “shot the 
duck,” balanced himself first on one foot and then 
on the other, and finally came to an abrupt halt, 
leaving a trail of ice shavings in his wake. 

“My!” said Louise as he stood beside her, 
panting a little. “ I wish I could do those 
things.” 

He beamed. “ They’re easy. Hang on to my arm 
and I’ll show you. Now, step out with me. One- 
two, one-two, one-two.” 

Her ankles bent over until they touched the ice, 
and her breath came in quick, nervous gasps. Never- 


280 


A SON OF THE CITY 


theless, she followed bravely over a scant ten feet of 
the rink. 

Isn’t that easy ? ” 

She nodded with an assurance which she was far 
from feeling. ‘‘My skate strap hurts. The right 
one. Loosen it, John.” 

He knelt to make the necessary alteration. As 
he stood up, one of his lady’s feet started off on an 
unauthorized expedition, and she grabbed him by the 
arm with a fervency which nearly proved disastrous. 

“ Don’t start again just yet,” she begged. “ I’m 
tired.” 

As they stood there, a pounding, scurrying figure 
in black. Red Brown, sped past at top speed. Silvey 
followed closely, noted the situation, and slowed up. 

“Leave her in the skating house and come on,” 
he called. “ Red’s got it and we’re having heaps of 
fun.” 

Skinny Mosher and Perry Alford came, both in 
pursuit of the fleet-footed Brown. Sid DuPree, 
puffing audibly, stopped just out of reach, glad of 
any pretext to halt long enough to catch his breath. 

“ Let’s see her skate,” he sneered, knowing that 
Louise dared not release her escort for pursuit. 
“ You’re a fine teacher, you are. Don’t you wish 
you were with us?” 

John’s eyes followed him longingly as he skated 
off. The temptation of Silvey ’s invitation was great, 
and with any other maiden, would have proved fatal. 


HE BUYS VALENTINES 


281 


But the lure of the rosy dream for the future was still 
strong. He freed himself gently from her grasp, 
and was two yards away before she realized what 
he had done. 

“ There,” he said with satisfaction. “ I knew you 
could stand up. Now, skate to me.” 

“ Aw-w-w, Johnny, come on back. Fm going to 
fall!” 

‘‘ No you’re not,” said John decisively. “ Try and 
you’ll see.” 

Louise essayed one ineffectual stroke and stood 
helpless. ‘‘I t-think you’re just horrid,” she whim- 
pered. 

He grew a trifle impatient. “You’ll never learn 
that way.” Why were girls always so afraid to try 
things, anyway? 

She made another halting attempt, reached for- 
ward to catch him, and felt herself slipping, then 
straightened up, leaned too far backwards, and her 
feet shot suddenly out from under her. Pupil and 
teacher crashed to the ice. John was the first to re- 
cover himself, although the unexpected fall had been 
a severe one. He stooped over his lady in spite of 
strangely shaky knees, and found her sobbing, partly 
from nervous shock and partly from mortification. 

“ Hurt, Louise ? ” She sat up angrily and dug her 
mittened hands into her eyes. He caught a murmur 
of “ Horrid old thing ! ” and she began to sob. The 
boy knelt and removed her skates gently. 


282 


A SON OF THE CITY 


“ Come,” he suggested wisely. We’ll go into the 
warming house and have something to eat. Then 
you’ll feel better. Catch hold of my hand. One, 
two, three ! Up you come.” 

They sat down on one of the gray, wooden 
benches which lined the big room. Louise studied 
the dingy sign on the post by the counter. 

“ Aren’t mad, are you ? ” he asked anxiously. “ I 
didn’t do it on purpose.” 

The easy tears had dried and she shook her head 
cheerfully. 

‘‘Give me some apple pie,” she began. Thus 
peace was concluded. 

When she had drained the last drop of cider from 
the glass and dropped the pasteboard pie plate on the 
floor, John kicked it under the seat with his heel 
and leaned over to her. 

“Take some more,” he urged. “I’m not Sid 
DuPree.” 

Since the disastrous one in late December, there 
had been two exceedingly prosperous snowfalls to 
supplement the newspaper revenue, and he had plun- 
dered the pig bank for funds for the evening with a 
clear conscience. 

Again Louise eyed the placard. Coffee was for 
grown-ups, and strictly forbidden at home; there- 
fore she would sample a cup of it. “ And a red-hot 
sandwich and some more apple pie, Johnny.” 

When she had finished, they started for home. 


HE BUYS VALENTINES 


283 


Their feet were still unaccustomed to the difference 
between walking and skating and they stumbled 
now and then along the path. As they came to the 
road, John looked down at her anxiously. 

“ Have a good time ? 

“ It was peachy.” 

“Aren’t you glad you didn’t go with Sid?” 

She nodded. 

“ Have enough to eat ? ” 

She assented heavily. Strange how the taste of 
that forbidden coffee lingered in her mouth. 

In the morning as Miss Brown called the roll, 
John gave a quick glance backward along the aisle. 
His lady was absent. The strangely assorted meal 
had been too much for her. 

But attacks of indigestion rarely last more than 
a day, and this one proved no hindrance to the series 
of tri-weekly skating parties, minus refreshments, 
in which the pair participated. After two weeks 
of laborious lessons, Louise found that she was able 
to take a few sure strokes without gulping and call- 
ing for masculine aid. The first trip around the 
rough ice about the island followed, sure test of a 
beginner’s prowess, and, behold ! the youthful mentor 
found the lessons no longer irksome. 

As they sauntered home, skates clashing merrily 
at every step over the arc-lit snow of the park drive- 
way, one starlit February night, Louise broke into 
a sudden delighted giggle. 


284 


A SON OF THE CITY 


“ Day after tomorrow’s Lincoln’s birthday. 
Aren’t you glad?” 

Glad? Was ever a schoolboy sorry for an added 
day of freedom? 

‘‘Two days after that’s St. Valentine’s day. 
We’ll have a box up at school then. What kind of 
valentines do you like best ? ” he quizzed in return. 
“ Paper hearts and things with lots of lace on them, 
or celluloid ones in boxes ? ” 

Louise hesitated for a moment. 

“ I like,” she said finally, “ any kind of valentines, 
but best I like lots and lots of them — more’n anyone 
else in the room gets. Last year I was third, and 
in second grade a girl got one more valentine than 
I did. It was only a comic, but that gave her nine, 
and I had eight. This year I want to be first ! ” 

It was no small honor which the girl craved. To 
lead in the valentine distribution is to be acknowl- 
edged the belle of the room until the June examina- 
tions break up the little, pupil cliques and send their 
members to the different higher-grade rooms. John 
resolved that her wish should be fulfilled, but that 
achievement lay at the end of a path beset with pit- 
falls. Let rumor make the rounds that he purposed 
stuffing the box, and others would play at the same 
game. Witness a girl in an early grade, the home- 
liest of the room, who begged a dollar from her 
father and filled the box to overflowing with a hun- 
dred penny valentines addressed to herself. 


HE BUYS VALENTINES 


285 


He left for his paper route half an hour earlier, 
that Lincoln’s birthday afternoon, and turned 
abruptly westward as he reached the corner where 
the wagon drove up with his nightly bundle. He 
halted a moment in front of the school store. In the 
window was the usual display of rubber balls, penny 
trinkets, and magazines, and beyond them, he could 
see the deserted interior. As he had foreseen, the 
holiday had brought the usual lack of juvenile trade, 
and investment in the valentine market could be 
made without fear. 

He swung the door back. The trip bell rang 
noisily, and tall, angular Miss Thomas came out 
from the suite of little rooms in the rear. 

‘‘Valentines,” said he briefly. She reached a 
shallow box containing a dozen or so of the little 
printed love missives to the glass-topped counter, 
where he pawed them over with one half-washed 
hand. 

“ I want more than these ! ” 

The look of boredom, bred by long months of 
finicky penny purchasers, vanished. She stooped for 
one of the packets of fresh stock on the lower shelf. 
As he broke it open, she readjusted her heavy- 
rimmed spectacles, and watched his actions with 
amusement. 

Hearts of cardboard with crudely pierced edges 
of blue forget-me-nots, little square folders bearing 
pictures of doves, a cottage, an old mill, or a bit of 


286 


A SON OF THE CITY 


idealistic scenery — he sorted them all. Each ap- 
propriate sentiment on the inner leaf, “To one I 
love,” “To my true love,” and the like, was read 
and approved before he shoved the packet away from 
him. 

“Let’s see your two-penny ones.” 

Gorgeously laced, these, with cut-outs in the cen- 
ter to reveal butterflies, arrow-pierced hearts, or 
Dresden Shepherdesses. He selected three of the 
gaudy creations. 

“The nickel ones — in boxes.” 

Thus did he aspire to brilliantly-colored celluloid 
for the crowning jewel of the St. Valentine’s sacri- 
fice. He handed the assortment to Miss Thomas 
with a sheepish grin. 

“ Envelopes for them, too. How much ? ” 

She counted them with gaunt, practiced fingers. 

“ Sixteen penny ones, three two-centers, and one 
at five. Do you want one or two-cent envelopes?” 

He gazed at the assortment of paper containers. 
Monstrosities of hearts, cupids, and entwining fret- 
work were embossed on each, but save for the in- 
tricacy of design, there was little difference between 
them. He indicated his choice. 

“ Forty-three cents,” said Miss Thomas. 

John paid the sum without a tremor and dashed 
for the door. The selection had taken longer than 
he had planned and he was afraid he would miss the 
paper wagon. 


HE BUYS VALENTINES 


287 


That evening was passed in addressing the en- 
velopes at his father’s library desk. Five of them 
were scrawled in a heavy backhand, with the aid 
of his mother’s broad, stub pen, and five more in his 
normal handwriting. He finished the others in a 
variety of huge pothooks with blackly crossed ‘‘ T’s ” 
and dotted “ I’s,” and viewed the result of his labors 
with great satisfaction. Louise would never guess 
that they had come from the same donor. 

Their despatch to the valentine box was the next 
thing to trouble him. If he deposited so large a 
number of love tokens in one, or even two install- 
ments, it would certainly attract attention. He took 
Silvey into his confidence. 

‘‘ Why don’t you want Louise to know where they 
came from?” asked his chum thoughtfully. 

“ ’Cause getting the most valentines in the room 
won’t be half the fun if she knows I sent ’em all.” 

Give ’em to me,” said Silvey. ‘T’ll put half in, 
myself, and Red can take the rest.” 

Promptly at two-thirty, that Fourteenth of Febru- 
ary, Miss Brown brought the recitations to a close 
and laid her little, black record book in the desk 
drawer, then drew the big, slotted cardboard box 
toward her and smiled down at the expectant pupils. 

‘H’ll ask you to keep as quiet as possible,” she 
requested. ‘‘Otherwise, we may disturb some of 
the grown-up, eighth-grade classes who are too old 
for these things.” 


288 


A SON OF THE CITY 


No need of any such caution. The children were 
quiet as the proverbial mice as they waited for the 
first name to be called. 

‘7ohn Fletcher.’’ 

He stumbled to his feet in amazement. Had 
Louise sent him a valentine? As he opened the 
envelope, a gaudy caricature of a gentleman with 
reddened nose, paste-diamond pin, and flowered vest 
met his eyes. Underneath was a bit of doggerel 
elaborating certain traits ascribed to “ The 
Rounder.” He twisted suddenly in his seat and sur- 
prised a smile of exultation on Sid’s face. 

Just wait until school was over. He’d fix him for 
that. 

‘‘Olga,” called Miss Brown with a smile, some 
moments later. 

Flaxen-haired Olga simpered up to receive her 
missive. The excited buzz of conversation which 
arose claimed John’s attention. 

“ That makes eight for her.” 

“ But Louise has nine ! ” 

Names of several girls who were popular only in 
the eyes of their youthful swains followed. The 
teacher shuffled the remaining valentines hastily. 

“ Four more for Olga, and three for Louise.” 

John turned anxiously and encountered a look of 
placid satisfaction on Olaf’s stolid face; that same 
Olaf who had offered to sell his symptom list for a 
fifth of the market price. 


HE BUYS VALENTINES 


289 


“ Louise Martin, two more/’ 

*'Six for Olga!” 

John leaned tensely forward. He had sent but an 
even twenty of the gaudy trinkets, and this sudden 
influx of rival valentines threatened dangerously to 
pass that number. More envelopes were passed out. 
From behind him, he caught the excited whisperings 
of two girls. 

‘‘ Louise has twenty I ” 

“ And Olga, twenty-one ! ” 

Miss Brown stooped to turn a broad box right side 
up on her desk. 

‘‘ The last valentine,” she concluded. “Here you 
are, Louise.” 

Had Sid sent that? He’d smash his face in if he 
had. The unexpected addition had saved the day 
for his sweetheart, but that kid had no business but- 
ting in, anyway ! Miss Brown watched the buzzing 
groups of pupils. 

“There’s just fifteen minutes left before dis- 
missal,” she said considerately. “You may spend 
it in looking at each other’s valentines if you wish.” 

The pupils crowded back to his lady’s seat, while 
he stood on a chair near the wall and craned his neck 
to see the vision of celluloid and pink and blue rib- 
bon which had come in that last box. She examined 
the wrappings again, but no identifying mark could 
be found. As John stepped down, Sid DuPree 
tried to edge past him, and found his way blocked 


290 


A SON OF THE CITY 


immediately. Louise looked up at her youthful 
fiance. 

‘‘ Oh, Johnny, Johnny,” she smiled delightedly. 

“I sent — ” began Sid from behind his shoulder. 
Then was John filled with sudden wrath. He would 
squelch this persistent rival once and for all. 

“You sent it?” he sneered. 

“ I did,” DuPree replied. Louise watched the two 
eagerly. 

“ Why that cost all of a quarter. And kids who 
asks folks to have sundaes and then can’t pay for 
them, don’t spend that much for valentines. Cheap- 
skates never do ! ” 

Sid scowled. Before he could make suitable re- 
ply, Miss Brown rapped for order and he had to go 
back to his seat. There, as he squirmed in his seat 
while waiting for the dismissal bell, he caught John 
looking at him and stuck out his tongue as a mani- 
festation of his scorn. But that gentleman only 
grinned. Wrongfully or no, he knew that the credit 
for the twenty-five cent valentine had been given to 
him, and he was content to let matters rest as they 
were. 

Valentine’s day past, Washington’s birthday was 
the one festive oasis left for the children in the 
desert of school days. Though the cold weather held 
marvelously well, little by little the thermometer 
beside the drug store’s door showed rising-tempera- 
ture levels as John stopped to look at it on the way 


HE BUYS VALENTINES 


291 


to school. The long, northern shadows which the 
houses and apartments cast against the soot-grayed 
snow were shortening rapidly, and his paper route, 
so long patrolled in entire or semi-darkness, was now 
completed just as dusk set in. 

Then Miss Brown reached back in her desk drawer 
for a certain packet of narrow manila envelopes, that 
last February afternoon, and brought to a certain 
small boy who occupied the seat just in front of her 
desk, sudden realization that March was upon the 
class. 

“ Please have them signed and returned by Mon- 
day,” she told the pupils as she distributed them. 

John drew the white, finger-marked card from the 
ragged envelope, and his face went first white and 
then scarlet as his eye followed the long column of 
marks. Accusing memories of lessons half done or 
postponed with a hope that teacher wouldn’t call on 
him, of a skating party with Louise when a 
geography map should have been outlined, and of 
arithmetic papers hurriedly done in the half-hour 
‘‘ B ” class recitation period, to be returned with a 
heavily penciled “20” or “30” across their sur- 
faces, arose to annoy him. His teacher spoke again. 

“ There are one or two boys and girls in the ‘ A ’ 
class who will have to do better next month,” John 
fancied that she was looking squarely at him, “or 
they’ll be sent down into the ‘ B ’ division.” 

That wasn’t the worst of the matter. He had 


292 


A SON OF THE CITY 


to take that testimonial of disgrace home to be 
signed, and duly commented upon, by his mother. 

The card reposed safely in his pocket over Satur- 
day, while he pondered now and then upon the least 
painful method of breaking the news to her. Sun- 
day passed. On Monday morning, as he stood up 
from the breakfast table, he broke out, 

‘‘Mother!’’ 

“Yes, son?” 

His courage vanished, and he was unable to go 
any further. 

“What is it?” she asked. 

“N-nothing. It was a peachy breakfast.” He 
kissed her nervously and went into the hall for his 
coat. 

“I forgot to bring it,” he told Miss Brown that 
morning school session. At noon, he had the same 
excuse. 

“Well, if it isn’t here tomorrow morning. I’ll 
send you home after it,” that sophisticated super- 
visor of juveniles replied. And with this uncom- 
fortable fact ever in his mind, he set out on the after- 
noon journey with the newspapers. 

The weather seemed to have shaped itself for his 
mood. A curious, raw dampness had crept into the 
still air, and overhead was a level, sullen expanse of 
gray vapor. Locomotive smoke showed that the 
light breeze had shifted suddenly to the south, and 
there was an indefinable attitude of expectancy 


HE BUYS VALENTINES 


293 


about, as if the big city with its varied expanse of 
buildings and vacant lots and snow-filled parks was 
waiting for something. As he stamped up the front 
porch steps and kicked the snow from his shoe soles, 
a fine, almost invisible drizzle began. 

Blame that report card, anyway. Perhaps if he 
presented it with the “hundred’’ spelling paper 
that very day, his mother wouldn’t be too severe with 
him. He’d try that experiment in the morning, any- 
way. 

But upon waking, he stared from his window in 
delight at the spectacle which the capricious weather 
had formed for him. The rain had increased as the 
night passed, and had frozen upon the chilled trees 
and house roofs. The linden on the Fletcher lawn 
was coated with fairy lace work, and the denuded 
lilac bush across the way shone black through its 
glassy covering. The long expanse of dark, cement 
walk which flanked each side of the snowy road was 
coated with ice and made walking for pedestrians a 
matter of some danger. As he jerked his tie into 
position. Perry Alford shot past on his skates, and 
he hurried down to breakfast. He’d have a little of 
that sport before school, himself. 

But as he rose joyously from the table, he stopped 
short. There was that report card; and he knew 
that his plans were shattered. Mrs. Fletcher’s re- 
marks upon his many deficiencies would consume 
every minute of the time before school. 


294 


A SON OF THE CITY 


“ My report/’ he said briefly. She looked at it. 

“John!” 

He gazed out of the window in a forlorn effort to 
appear unconcerned. 

“ Reading, ^ F quoted Mrs. Fletcher, “ and last 
month it was *G.” 

He drew out his watch and set the big hand for- 
ward ten minutes. If he used a little strategy, he 
could at least shorten the lecture by that amount of 
time. 

“ Arithmetic, ‘ P ’/’ she went on. “ And geography, 
‘ P ’. And you told me you had all your lessons done 
when I gave you permission to go skating those 
evenings. I’m very much displeased with you.” 

He grew desperate. When Mrs. Fletcher began to 
talk about being displeased and grieved, there was 
trouble ahead. He drew a much-chewed pencil from 
his coat pocket and handed it to her. 

“Hurry and sign. Mother,” he begged. “It’s 
school time.” 

“ She scribbled a reluctant signature at the bottom 
and looked at it thoughtfully. “I’ll keep this to 
show to your father this evening.” 

“ I’ve had it three days already,” he blurted. “It’s 
got to go back today.” 

He snatched the card from her hand, showed his 
watch as she protested, and fled for his coat. Once 
at the corner, he stopped running and smiled. The 
escape had been fairly easy and with a minimum of 


HE BUYS VALENTINES 


295 


fuss, and he was immeasurably lighthearted, now 
that the report card bugaboo was off his mind. 

At Southern Avenue, he caught up with Sid, Sil- 
vey, and Perry Alford. Bits of ice dropped from the 
trees to the walk as they sauntered along, and water 
dripped from the icicles on the eaves of the apart- 
ments and stores as the morning rise in temperature 
began to take effect. 

“ Feel’s as if it’s going to thaw,” said Silvey as 
they came to a very slippery stretch of walk. So the 
quartette slid up and down on the ice as long after 
the second assembly bell as they dared, and with the 
fear of tardiness upon them, dashed for the school 
yard. 

His pocket was empty, and his conscience clear, 
and the morning session passed swiftly for John. 
At noon, as the long lines filed into the school yard 
to freedom, he looked about him with delight. 

The winter’s deposit of snow was melting into lit- 
tle rivulets which trickled merrily along wagon ruts 
until they came to the street drains. First-graders 
stopped to splash soggy snowballs into a huge puddle 
which had collected in the street just beyond the 
alley, and the drip-drip-drip of the water, from the 
trees and buildings to the wet, glistening sidewalks 
was as music to his ears. He broke into a run toward 
home from pure exuberance of feelings, and halted 
now and then to fill his lungs with the sunlit, preg- 
nant air which the south wind had brought. 


296 


A SON OF THE CITY 


The thought of the continuation of the “penny 
lecture'’ which was waiting failed to dampen his 
spirits, even though it threatened curtailment of his 
evenings with Louise. For if the skating parties 
were over, spring with its marbles, tops, and kindred 
delights had arrived and all sorrow fled before it. 



CHAPTER XV 


THE SPRING BRINGS BASEBALL 

T ITTLE by little the snow disappeared. During 

' the first days of the thaw, lethargic city em- 
ployees chopped paths through the melting ice to the 
street drains. Bare edges of the cement walks ap- 
peared in places, and at night the puddles and pools 
in the street hollows bore a thin, frozen covering. 
As the month passed, the crystals became more and 
more rare, and green areas of grass appeared on the 
more exposed portions of the neighborhood lawns. 
The children turned from their sport of sailing sficks 
and improvised boats down the trickling, artificial 
brooklets to take part in games of ‘‘Run, sheep, 
run and “ Hide-and-seek ’’ over the rapidly soft- 
ening turf. A pelting, refreshing rain from the 
south drove away the last soot-stained vestiges of 
the snow lying in the protecting shadows between 
the houses, and presto. Miss Thomas’ little store 
displayed a window stock of agates, catseyes, and 
common clay marbles to tempt pennies from boyish 
pockets. 

Then, after school, during recess, and for long 
minutes before the afternoon session, the alley which 
flanked the school yard was marked with rings of 
297 


298 


A SON OF THE CITY 


varying dimensions. The air resounded with cries 
of, “No hudgins,” “H’ist,’’ “Your shot,” or “You 
dribbled,” as the players contested for prizes of five- 
and six-for-a-cent clay marbles. Occasionally two 
of the big eighth-grade boys would draw a six-foot 
circle in the earth and play for “K’nicks, dime 
ones,” and the game would bring a crowd, three 
deep, from the neighboring players to applaud or 
gasp at each shot. 

Even John, man of business that he was, could not 
resist the temptation. The last traces of that au- 
tumnal scorn toward “such foolishness” vanished 
as he became the owner of two shooters and a pocket- 
ful of the more common marbles. 

The clan spirit among the different boyish cliques 
at school revived again. Skinny Mosher, who had 
hugged the warm house during the coldest days of 
the winter, caught suddenly up with John and Silvey 
as they frolicked home for dinner, and brought the 
news that a “Jefferson Tough” had threatened to 
punch his face in, with no provocation whatsoever. 
The long-discussed secret code took a new lease on 
life, and cipher messages passed to the various cor- 
ners of room ten with a frequency which drove Miss 
Brown nearly to distraction. 

That early April afternoon saw the reunion of the 
“ Tigers ” in the Silvey back yard. They viewed the 
dilapidated, weather-beaten club house with re- 
awakened interest. Quoth John, 


THE SPRING BRINGS BASEBALL 


299 


“ It’s awful dirty where the snow worked in 
through the fence. Let’s fix her up.” Down into the 
basement went Bill at the words, and reappeared 
with an old broom, a hammer, and some nails. 

‘‘A lot of the boards are loose,” he said, as the 
boys grabbed the implements. 

Sid stood around and offered voluble suggestions, 
but the others fell to work with a will. At the end 
of a half-hour the dirt floor was brushed free of 
debris with a thoroughness never attained on mater- 
nal cleaning assignments, and the little desk was 
dragged from its winter shelter of the house to 
occupy the customary position of state. 

Red Brown stretched out on the springy, allur- 
ing sod near the building. John and Sid, Skinny 
and Silvey, followed his example. 

Isn’t this great ? ” the red-haired one asked bliss- 
fully. Sid reverted to the cause for the summons 
of the clan. 

“ How about the ‘ Jeffersons ’ ? ” he asked. 

Babel reigned instantly. Silvey was for picking 
them off, one by one. Red counseled a sudden 
descent in force upon the home haunts of the 
enemy. A rear window in the Silvey house creaked 
upward, and a feminine voice pierced the sun-filled 
air. 

“ Land’s sakes. Bill Silvey, get off that wet 
ground this minute. You’ll catch your death of cold 
lying there this early in April.” 


300 


A SON OF THE CITY 


The boy sprang to his feet, while his friends • 
grinned sympathetically. 

And you, John Fletcher,” Mrs. Silvey went on, 
“you needn’t laugh. Your mother won’t like it a 
bit better, if I telephone her. She’ll call you home 
in a minute ! ” 

They all rose at this. Truly, modern electrical 
inventions widen the maternal scope of authority. 

“ Shucks ! ” said Skinny, as he brushed some dead 
grass from his coat. “Now she’s spoiled it all. 
What’ll we do ? ” 

John tossed his battered cap high in the air in a 
sudden access of spirits. “One for scrub,” he 
shouted. “First raps for the first game of scrub. 
Go home and get your league ball and bat, Sid. I’ll 
bring my first baseman’s glove. Silvey’ll find his 
catcher’s mitt. Beat you home ! Beat you home ! ” 

They were off. Down the cement sidewalk they 
darted, their quick breaths showing ever so slightly 
in the crisp air. John stamped up the steps and into 
the front hall. 

“ Mother ! ” he called. “ Mother ! ” 

“Yes, son?” came the voice from the big second 
floor sewing room. 

“ Where’s my baseball glove ? ” He kicked against 
the bottom step of the stairway impatiently. 

“Did you wipe your feet when you came in?” 
came the disconcerting inquiry. “ I don’t want the 
carpets all over mud.” 


THE SPRING BRINGS BASEBALL 


301 


Y-yes.’^ 

“ Go back and wipe them right away. Then come 
up and tell me what you want.” 

He gave his offending shoes a half-rub against the 
fiber mat on the porch, and was up by her side in 
another moment. She looked up from the basket of 
ragged stockings she was sorting. 

“Now, what is it?” 

“My first baseman’s glove. The one dad gave 
me for my birthday. Know where it is ? ” 

“Where did you leave it?” 

“ Why, don’t you know ? ” His surprise was genu- 
ine. Usually his mother picked up his boyish be- 
longings and stored them in a place of safety. 

“ Is that the glove which laid in the coat closet 
all last November? the one that I kept telling you 
to put away before it became lost?” 

He nodded. “ Please tell me. Mother. The boys 
are all down at Silvey’s, and I’ve got to get it quick! ” 

Mrs. Fletcher yielded with a smile. “ Seems to me 
I saw it on your closet shelf, the other day.” 

A moment later, a shout told that her memory had 
served her rightly. The door slammed, eager feet 
sprang down the wooden porch steps, and her son 
dogtrotted north toward his chum’s, as fast as his 
legs could carry him. 

When he arrived, Silvey scaled the stout wire 
fence on the railroad property, and hunted three 
white stones of fair and flat proportions. 


302 


A SON OF THE CITY 


Here’s your bases,” he called ; 
he heaved the objects into the yai 
with a recklessness which threaten< 
destruction to the turf. ‘^Johm 
was first at bat, wasn’t he?” 


They took their positions in 



the order of the numbers which ^ 
they had called earlier. Silvey stood behind the 
home plate, Sid DuPree was in the pitcher’s box. 
Red played first base, and Skinny Mosher stood 
near the fence to cover the outfield, second, and third 
as best he could. Sid ground the ball into the heel 
of his heavily padded mitt, as he had seen profes- 
sional pitchers do, bent forward, and threw the ball 
over Silvey’s head against the back wall of the house. 

“Ya-ah,” taunted John as the catcher scrambled 
‘^’Fraid to put ’em near me. 
to put ’em near me.” 



Again a window creaked, 
and again a maternal voice 
showed that attention had 
been drawn to the “Tigers’ ” 
latest recreation. 


“ What are you boys 
trying to do?” fretfully. 
“ Don’t you know this house 


“ Go easy,” cautioned 
Bill in an undertone. “ Re- 


has windows in it?” 


THE SPRING BRINGS BASEBALL 


303 


member, Sid, you haven’t thrown a ball since last 
summer. I don’t want any ‘penny lectures’ ’cause 
you smashed some glass.’’ 

Sid drew his arm back for the second time. John 
leaned forward, caught the slowly moving ball with 
the full force of the bat, and tore for first base. 

“Over the fence is out, over the fence is out,” 
came the chorus. “ Silvey’s turn next.” 

The ex-batsman took up the position near the 
fence in disgust. Skinny moved forward to the 
pitcher’s box, and Sid replaced Bill as catcher. The 
muscles of Skinny’s long, thin arms tightened as he 
grasped the ball for his first pitch of the season. 

Suddenly the subdued afternoon babel of the city 
was dwarfed by a humming of factory whistles, 
some long drawn and of deep bass, others quicker 
and higher pitched, rising and dying away in suc- 
cession as they were supplanted by the distance-mel- 
lowed notes of other establishments with lagging 
time clocks. Dismay robbed John’s face of the grin 
of a moment before. 

“Five o’clock,” he cried as he threw the baseball 
glove into the quickening grass. “ Jiminy, kids, and 
the paper wagon comes at ten of ! ” 

Inquiry at the little dingy-windowed delicatessen 
and milk depot confirmed his fears. The cart had 
arrived on time, and his customers would expect 
their news sheets that evening. 

What a pest the business was growing to be. It 


304 


A SON OF THE CITY 


wasn’t half-bad in winter when the afternoons were 
short, but now that spring had arrived, there were 
so many delightful demands on a boy’s time. He 
counted the coins in his pocket, and made a mental 
calculation of the number of papers actually needed. 

'‘Give me all you’ve got,” he demanded of the 
astonished delicatessen proprietor. That thin- 
haired, shaky-fingered gentleman counted the papers 
on the black news stand. 

"There’s one for ol’ Miss Anderson, an’ one 
for—” 

"Never mind them,” John broke in excitedly. 
" Give me all your papers ! You’ve got to ! ” 

At that, the number was pitifully inadequate for 
his demands. He retraced his steps to the corner 
and hurried over to the suburban railroad station. 
There, the leader of the "Jefferson Toughs” was 
trying to dispose of the last of his wares. 

" Let’s have ’em all,” said John. His rival gazed 
at him in amazement. 

" Quit your kiddin’,” he ejaculated finally. 

" Honest ’n truth,” John assured him, " Missed 
the paper wagon, and I’ve got to fix my customers, 
somehow.” 

Next, he ran westward to the little school store 
to beg Miss Thomas to disappoint her steady patrons 
for just this once. The search led him far beyond 
the university buildings and the gray-stone flat 
which had marked the limits of their hitching trip 


THE SPRING BRINGS BASEBALL 


305 


in February, down to the business street with its 
rattling surface cars which lay a full mile west of 
John’s home. He returned by a side street, four 
blocks to the north, stopping at the numerous little 
stationery and notion shops on the way. Even 
with that, certain staid and substantial customers 
were horrified to find that the yellowest of yellow 
newspapers had supplanted their conservative favor- 
ite, that evening. 

He came home tired and footsore, and went 
wearily to bed after a half-eaten supper. The busi- 
ness which he had built up so zestfully in the autumn 
had enfettered him, and was shaping his leisure 
moments like an inexorable machine, and the realiza- 
tion of it gave him moodily thoughtful moments dur- 
ing the remainder of the week. 

Sunday, blessedly work free, was warm and sun- 
shiny. As soon as he had eaten dinner, he grabbed 
his battered cap from the hall chair and started for 
the door. 

‘‘ Going for a walk,” he explained to Mrs. Fletcher 
as she looked up from the Sunday paper. 

‘‘ Louise going with you ? ” 

‘‘Not much! Silvey’n me are going on a real 
walk. We don’t want to feed squirrels on an after- 
noon like this.” 

It was as if the entire city’s population had turned 
out to welcome the arrival of spring. The street 
leading from the car terminal was thronged with a 


306 


A SON OF THE CITY 


constantly moving procession bound for the park. 
White- faced stenographers and anaemic clerks came 
from the dingy boarding-house districts to the north. 
Stockily built mechanics swaggered along with their 
simpering, gaudily dressed lady loves. Here and 
there were entire families of substantial Germans 
and Swedes, and occasionally, swarthy Italians and 
beady-eyed, voluble Jews. Sooner or later, they all 
lost themselves in the winding gravel paths of the 
park, or made their way to the broad walk along the 
lake front, where the air was filled with their poly- 
glot babel. 

‘‘ Isn’t it peachy?” asked John as the boys passed 
the long, parallel rows of poplars which marked the 
edge of the park. ‘‘ Come on. Bill. Let’s go to the 
island.” 

The path led them by the boat landing. All traces 
of the warming house which had sheltered so many 
numbed skaters during the winter had been removed. 
In its stead, were piled rows upon rows of yellow, 
flat-bottomed boats, one on top of another, with 
boards separating them. 

“ Look ! ” John pointed them out. “ That means 
summer’s coming soon, and fishing, and school vaca- 
tion.” 

On the island, they found two severely dressed, 
angular students from the university who stood be- 
neath a small brown bird in the branch of a budding 
maple. As he sunned himself happily, the taller of 


THE SPRING BRINGS BASEBALL 


307 


the two consulted a book which she held in one hand 
in a manner vaguely suggestive of Miss Brown and 
school recitations. 

'‘It is a little smaller than Wilson’s thrush, 
Maria,” she admitted. "Still — ” 

John chuckled; "Nothing but a sparrow.” He 
brushed past a bench on which was squatted a be- 
shawled, unwashed, immigrant grandmother. 
“Come on down this little path. Bill. Perhaps we 
can find some birds if we look.” 

But the season was still a little too early for 
the arrival of the robins, the yellowhammers, and the 
elusive kinglets and thrushes from the southland. 
Though the boys stalked in and out the winding, 
bush-beset trail, their search startled only nervous- 
tailed squirrels and dozens of the feathered gamins 
which had so sorely puzzled the two schoolmams. 
But the dandelions were poking their green shoots 
through the deposit of snow-packed autumn leaves, 
and the moss on the tree trunks lightened the som- 
ber gray of the bark. In one inlet of the lagoon, 
John caught a gleam in the water which was not a 
ripple reflection of the sun’s rays. 

" Sunfish,” he whispered to Bill. 

A bungling pair of grown-ups crashed down the 
path and drove the wary feeders to cover in deeper 
water. The boys waited a few futile minutes for 
their return, then dashed noisily over the wooden 
south bridge, past the golf links with its dense mass 


308 


A SON OF THE CITY 


of patiently waiting enthusiasts, and down the gently 
sloping road to the stone bridge which marked the 
entrance to the yacht harbor. 

There, where the black, bobbing buoys marked the 
moorings of the summer fleet of skiffs and schoon- 
ers, of noisy little open motorboats, and long, heavily 
powered gasoline cruisers, Silvey found an empty 
bottle on the graveled shore. John looked at it re- 
flectively. 

“Got some paper?’’ 

Bill found an old spelling sheet in his pocket. John 
tore off the cleanest end and, with the curving side 
of the bottle for a writing board, scribbled a labor- 
ious note. 

“Lat 57, Long 64,” he began, remembering the 
inevitable heading of the missives in sea-faring 
novels. “ Nancy Lee sank this date, August 3, 1872. 
All hands lost but me. Frank Smith.” 

“What’s that for?” 

He worked the note down the narrow glass neck 
and plugged it with a bit of driftwood. “ Maybe 
somebody, ’way across the lake, will find this,” he 
explained, as he threw the receptacle far out on the 
water. “ Then they’ll think a ship’s sunk.” 

“ What’s ' lat ’ and ‘ long ’ ? ” asked Silvey, as they 
watched it bobbing up and down with the ripples. 

“ The checkerboard lines on the geography maps,” 
his chum answered evasively, as they retraced their 
steps northward. 


THE SPRING BRINGS BASEBALL 


309 


At the macadam road they hesitated. On the 
other side lay the smaller golf course, which offered 
excellent amusement because of its many enthusiastic 
novices at the sport, and the lure of an occasional 
shrubbery-hidden ball which might be found by keen 
eyes. Ahead, stretched the lake and the broad walk, 
thronged with laughing, friendly humanity. 

Let’s go the beach way,” said John suddenly. 
Indeed, no spring jaunt could be complete without a 
stroll over the clinging, weather-beaten sand. 

They halted first at the long pier, and walked out 
to the end to catch the invigorating freshness of the 
water-kissed south wind. There, a persistent fisher- 
man, the first of that season’s nimrod tribe, leaned 
against the life-preserver post. 

John leaned cautiously over to see if captive perch 
were floating back and forth. Only ruffled water 
met his gaze. 

“ Biting any ? ” he asked. 

The fisherman shook his head. A mite early, I 
guess.” 

‘‘Oh, I don’t know,” John encouraged. “Come 
on, Sil, let’s sit down and watch. Maybe he’ll catch 
something soon.” 

So the boys dangled their feet over the edge of the 
pier until the lengthening shadows told that it was 
time to leave for home. They rose regretfully and 
resumed the saunter along the broad walk with its 
many, occupied benches. Down on the sand, chil- 


310 


A SON OF THE CITY 


dren hazarded spring colds as they fashioned hills 
and castles by the lake. Further along, an ardent 
youth serenely disregarded photographic rules and 
pointed his kodak at a group of laughing girls who 
stood between him and the setting sun. As the boys 
left the park, they passed a group of gray-suited ball 
players, which had been using one of the park dia- 
monds near the golf links. John watched them a 
minute. 

Most time for our team to get together again,” 
he said. 

Silvey nodded. Sid was talking about it after 
the game of scrub the other day. Wants to be cap- 
tain this year.” 

John laughed scornfully. As Silvey well knew, 
he, himself, intended to be re-elected to that impor- 
tant office. “ Let’s go home by the big lot and see 
what it’s like,” he suggested. 

A few minutes later they clambered over the 
shaky fence which separated the field from the side- 
walk and neighboring dairy pasturage. Silvey dug 
his foot into the yielding turf, which had formed the 
scene of that football scrimmage between the “ Jef- 
fersons” and the ‘‘Tigers.” 

“ ’Most dry enough to play on,” he observed. 

John nodded. The flat, white stone which had 
been used for a home plate during the summer had 
been removed as a hindrance to the gridiron sport, 
and the base lines which had been worn into the turf 


THE SPRING BRINGS BASEBALL 


311 


by frequent boyish footsteps, were almost obliterated 
by the winter’s debris and the rank, quickening grass. 
Not an inspiring view by any means, yet John gazed 
upon it in dreamy satisfaction. 

‘‘Let’s make ’er a real home grounds,” he said 
suddenly. “ Soon as it gets drier, we’ll bring our 
rakes over and get this stuff out of the way;” he 
kicked a rusty tin can to one side. “ Then we’ll cut 
the grass and make cinder base lines, and every- 
thing’ll be just peachy.” 

Silvey beamed, enthralled as usual by John’s fer- 
tile imagination. 

“Then,” went on John, as he retraced his steps 
to the walk, “we’ll get some lumber from new flat 
buildings and put up a grand stand and call it ‘ The 
Tigers’ Baseball Park.’” 

They halted some minutes later in front of the 
Silvey house. John’s watch told of at least a quarter 
of an hour before supper time, and they perched 
themselves on the top step to talk of fishing, of the 
May vacation of a week which would soon be upon 
them, of the leaky roof in the shack, and lastly of 
the baseball team. 

“Joe Menard’s folks had to move,” said Silvey, 
as he thought over the roster of last year’s organiza- 
tion. 

“We’ll get a pitcher somewhere,” said John, a 
trifle impatiently, as he changed the subject. “So 
Sid wants to be captain, does he ? ” 


312 


A SON OF THE CITY 


Silvey smiled, as does an adult listening to the 
vagaries of a child, ‘‘^ou know him as well as 
I do.” 

‘^But who’ll vote for him? There’s Red and 
Skinny and you and me and Perry and the Harrison 
kids, all don’t like him. If it wasn’t for that base- 
ball and bat, and those gloves of his, he couldn’t a’ 
played with us last year.” 

Silvey shrugged his shoulders. “ He’s going 
around school, saying that he’s going to be captain 
of the ‘Tigers’ this year.” 

“You’re president of the club, aren’t you?” said 
John, thoughtfully. 

His chum nodded. 

“ I’ll go around and see all the fellows. Any of 
’em who won’t vote for me, you tell ’em they’ll be 
dropped from the club. We’ll have a meeting when 
everything’s fixed, and Mr. Sid DuPree won’t think 
himself so smart.” 

Never was precinct canvassed more thoroughly 
by a municipal candidate than was the membership 
of the “Tigers” by the two boys during the week 
which followed. John dropped the usual walk home 
with Louise, one day, that he might talk to Skinny 
Mosher, and hung around the school yard another 
noon, that he might reassure himself of Brown’s 
loyalty. With a clear majority of six assured over 
Sid’s lone vote, code notices were sent back and forth 
between the different members until Miss Brown 


THE SPRING BRINGS BASEBALL 


313 


threatened to send the responsible parties to the prin- 
cipal’s office. 

With victory certain, John raced across the school 
yard and caught up with a certain maiden whom he 
had neglected sorely of late. 

“We’re going to have a ball team election tomor- 
row,” he explained, as he took possession of her 
school books. “ I’ve been awfully busy.” 

“I know,” she replied absently. “Sid told me. 
Says he’s going to be captain.” 

“ Guess not ! ” John was too pleased with the sur- 
prise prepared for his rival to realize the revelation 
in her words. “ Smarty DuPree hasn’t much show ^ 
when six of the fellows are going to vote for me.” 

Conversation lagged. Miss Martin was nervously 
alert lest she encounter a friendly greeting from Sid 
while her escort was with her, and John became ab- 
sorbed in the affairs of the morrow. Strangely 
enough, he experienced a feeling of relief when he 
left her at the apartment building and was able to 
race back to the shack where Silvey was waiting. 

There the two planned and boasted of combats to 
take place under his leadership on the renovated 
baseball field, until a warning conscience reminded 
John that it was nearing paper time. 


CHAPTER XVI 

MORE ABOUT ^'tHE GREATEST GAME IN THE WORLD 

NE by one, the boys filed in through the Silvey 
gateway, to squat outside the club-house en- 
trance until their roster was complete. Bill glanced 
nervously at Sid and cleared his throat. 

‘‘It’s baseball time,” he began abruptly. “And 
we’ve got to elect our captain and manager. Any — ” 
he paused and looked at John. 

“ Nom’nations? ” said the latter promptly. 

There was an awkward silence. Sid tightened his 
grasp on a handful of the fresh, green turf. John 
looked meaningly at Red Brown, who spoke up as he 
had been instructed. 

“ I nom’nate John Fletcher. He was captain last 
year ’n he ought to be this.” 

“ Any one else ? ” asked Silvey. 

“ I want to be captain,” said Sid, curtly. 

“Can’t nom’nate yourself,” ruled the president. 
“ Somebody’s got to do it for you.” 

“ Somebody’s got to second it, too,” supplemented 
John. 

Sid gazed helplessly about. Truly this newly 
made maze of parliamentary law was bewildering. 
“ Nobody’s seconded John’s,” he said at last. 

314 


THE GREATEST GAME IN THE WORLD ” 315 


‘‘ Second John’s nom’nation,” said Skinny Mosher 
promptly. 

‘‘ All those in favor of John as captain — ” 

Sid sprang to his feet. '‘Wait a minute,” he 
snapped. " You fellows think you’re smart, but let 
me tell you something. I said I was going to be 
captain, and I am.” 

“ You ! ” sneered John. " Why, you lost the game 
with Room Six’s team ’cause you couldn’t stop an 
easy grounder. Let it roll between your legs, you 
did.” 

“ Don’t care,” was the stubborn reply. “ I’m go- 
ing to be captain. Whose league ball did the team 
use last year ? ” 

"Yours,” admitted Silvey, reluctantly. 

"And the two bats, the second baseman’s glove, 
and two fielders’ mitts were mine, too, weren’t they ? 
Didn’t my dad buy ’em for me ? Well, go ahead and 
have Johnny for your old captain if you want. But 
if I can’t run the team, the team can’t use my 
things ! ” 

There was an astounded silence. Those astute 
politicians, John and Bill, had never dreamed of such 
a barefaced threat. They sat looking blankly at him, 
while Red Brown laughed disagreeably. 

" And you’re the kid who went home crying ’cause 
you were hit on the shin with a baseball. Fine cap- 
tain, you’ll make.” 

"Captain and the gloves, or you play without 


316 


A SON OF THE CITY 


’em,” came the arrogant ultimatum. “ Which do you 
want?” 

He could see by the thoughtful faces around him 
that his words were not without effect. Last year, 
the team had owned a reputation for being blessed 
with proper equipment, and to go back to the cheap, 
undersized balls, and scantily padded private mitts 
would be no small privation. John sighed wearily. 

“Guess you can be captain if you want to,” he 
said, finally. 

A reluctantly assenting chorus sanctioned his 
consent. Bill broached the subject of the baseball 
park improvements, and Sid shook his head emphat- 
ically. The idea was his rival’s and therefore to be 
fought. 

“ The park diamonds are lots better,” he argued. 
“ Take us all year to fix the lot up.” 

“But it ’d be our own,” Red broke in enthusias- 
tically. “Think of playing the ‘Jeffersons’ on the 
‘Tigers’ Home Grounds.’ ’Tain’t every team could 
say that, could it?” Which was the truth, for the 
vacant lots of the neighborhood were being rapidly 
supplanted by flat buildings and room for boyish 
playgrounds was becoming more and more scarce. 

Sid considered the matter a moment. Certainly 
it would add to the team’s, and his, prestige. 

“ Well, maybe,” he said, with seeming reluctance 
that his change of front might not seem too obvious. 
“ Let’s go over and see what the place is like.” 


THE GREATEST GAME IN THE WORLD ” 317 


“First across the tracks,” shouted Red, as he 
sprang to his feet. In a moment, the whole tribe 
was up and after him, climbing the wire railroad 
fence with a vigor which threatened destruction to 
the meshes. They scampered across the expanse of 
cinders and rails, broken here and there by a strug- 
gling bit of plant life, and scrambled out on the 
untidy field. 

The broken glass and old milk-bottle tops from 
the dairy had crept further out from the low, tar- 
paper building during the winter. Boards from the 
boxes and barrels which had formed the fortress for 
the cucumber fight were scattered to the four corners 
of the field, and the sparse, fresh grass blades sprang 
up to sunlight and life through the dead, gray- 
brown vegetation of the preceding autumn. 
Neither trace of baseball diamond nor football grid- 
iron could be found. Yet the “Tigers” purposed 
to make the place the talk of the juvenile population 
and they turned to their captain for advice. 

“Oh, fix ’er up someway,” said that gentleman 
vaguely. John glared at him in futile anger. 

“ Get the rubbish out of the way, first,” he broke 
out. 

Sid shrugged his shoulders. “John’ll tell you 
what to do. I’m captain, but so long as the park’s 
fixed up, I don’t care who does it.” 

“ Get your rake. Bill, and you, too. Skinny. I’ll 
go after ours. Rest of you kids pick up the tin cans 


318 


A SON OF THE CITY 


and wood and things while we’re gone. Come on, 
fellows. Beat you over the tracks.” 

John dropped his rake over the fence on his return, 
and glanced at his watch as a precaution. It was 
nearly five! Blame the paper business anyway! 
Never did he start some important project but what 
time flew so swiftly that he had to leave just when 
things were getting interesting. He called an ex- 
planatory “paper time!” to his team mates, turned 
his implement over to Red, and left for the little 
delicatessen store. 

All the next Monday afternoon the boys labored 
while their captain stood around with his hands in 
his pockets and watched condescendingly. John 
picked up Bill on his return from the paper route, 
and went over to the lot to inspect the carefully 
combed playing area. The broken glass, rain-soaked 
paper caps, sticks, boards, and dead grass had been 
carefully assembled in conical heaps near the rail- 
road fence, and he beamed his approval. 

“ It’s going to be peachy, Silvey,” he broke out. 

“Yes, and Sid ’ll say he did it,” his chum com- 
mented bitterly. 

“What do we care? We’ll put the home plate 
here,” he indicated a spot some fifty feet north of 
the dairy buildings. “ Then the sun won’t get in our 
eyes. I’ll borrow dad’s big tapeline to measure off 
the other bases, and the grand stand can go here. 
It’ll be big enough to hold ’most fifty people ! ” 


THE GREATEST GAME IN THE WORLD ” 319 


Silvey listened in amazement. He could run a 
football team as quarterback to perfection, or break 
through the opposing line time and again, as he had 
done last autumn, but this fertile foresight was some- 
thing beyond his comprehension. 

You talk as if you see it,” he said finally. 

‘‘Why, I do.” John dismissed the matter as 
worthy of no further comment. “ But before 
we do any of these things, we’ve got to cut the 
grass and see where the bumps in the ground 
are. 

For two afternoons the whirr of lawnmowers was 
heard over the “Tigers’ Home Grounds.” When 
the many hollows and hummocks in the uneven turf 
came to light, the youthful construction boss ordered 
that shovels be brought, and another day passed in 
transporting dirt and leveling the obstructions off. 
Pail after pail of water was carried from the dairy 
buildings to wet down and harden the new, loose 
earth, and it was Saturday morning before the dis- 
tances between the various bases and the pitcher’s 
box could be measured off. 

“ We’ll start filling in the paths with cinders now,” 
said John, as Silvey drove a peg into the ground to 
mark the location of the home plate. 

“Won’t they hurt when you slide on them?” 
drawled Perry Alford. 

“ But there’s nothing else to use, is there? ” 

“They’re starting a flat building next old lady 


320 


A SON OF THE CITY 


Meeker’s on Southern Avenue,” the boy suggested. 
‘‘ Why not get sand from there ? ” 

John shot him a glance of approval and called to 
the team members. ‘‘ Everybody get a pail and meet 
at Silvey’s,” he concluded, as they started for the 
railroad tracks. 

‘M’ll sit here and watch the tools,” said Sid, 
brazenly. 

“Aren’t you going to work at all?” broke out 
Silvey impatiently. 

“Don’t have to,” was the unperturbed reply. 
“ I’m the captain.” 

They left their nominal leader to do as he desired 
and scattered to commandeer the various family 
buckets and fiber pails. Skinny, who lived farthest 
from the Silvey’s, came up at last with his utensil, 
and they set off, single file, past Neighborhood Hall 
and the corner grocery stores, and around to quiet, 
sedate Southern Avenue, beating a crude marching 
rhythm on the tins as they went. At the sight of the 
ten-foot sandhill which the excavations for the 
apartments had formed, John broke into a run. 

“ Beat you there ! ” he shouted. 

Away they went after him, pell-mell, and dashed 
up the yielding sides to bury their pails deep in the 
golden particles. Silvey braced himself, tugged his 
load free, and staggered along the walk for perhaps 
thirty feet. John caught up with him and also halted 
for a rest. 


THE GREATEST GAME IN THE WORLD ” 321 


At last they started again, but it was no light- 
hearted, carefree, return trip for the ‘‘ Tigers/’ The 
sand-filled buckets weighed too much to be used as 
drums, and they retraced their steps slowly, dropping 
them every few minutes to ease their aching wrists. 
In front of Neighborhood Hall, Skinny found a blis- 
ter on one of his hands. 

‘‘Think we’ll ever get back?” he asked, despair- 
ingly. 

“It isn’t so far now,” John encouraged him. 
“ We’ve only got to go another block before we turn. 
Then it’s a half-block down to the hole in the fence. 
Come on. I’ll stump you to carry yours as far as 
the railroad tracks.” 

Thus by making it a matter of athletic prowess 
the boys carried their loads to the destination. But 
the little heaps on the dusty earth looked pitifully 
insignificant. Skinny borrowed a pin and lanced the 
white protuberance at the base of his second finger. 

“ Jiminy,” he mourned, as he squeezed the water 
out. “It’s going to be an awful lot of work, fel- 
lows.” 

They raked the sand level along the path from the 
plate to first base. Not by the wildest stretch of 
imagination could they seem to reach even a quarter 
of the distance, and protruding grass blades showed 
that the covering was far too scanty. 

“ Where’s your wagon, John ? ” asked Red Brown 
suddenly. 


322 


A SON OF THE CITY 


“ Busted,” said John, reproachfully. “ Have you 
forgotten ? ” 

During the summer preceding, a fever of wagon 
building had seized the boys. Every spare wheel and 
tricycle frame in the block had been requisitioned 
for the construction of a half-dozen little vehicles 
which suddenly appeared to scud down the sidewalks 
and over the smooth macadam street. There had 
been discussions and disputes as to speed, and John’s 
wagon, a long, well-oiled affair with a coat of red, 
discarded house paint on its framework, had come 
to grief in a collision with Brown’s, one sunny after- 
noon. Even Silvey, the optimist, who had furnished 
the motive power, had looked at the wreckage in 
well-founded despair. 

“Where’s yours?” Red turned abruptly to the 
Harrison boys. 

“ In the basement.” 

Skinny Mosher’s, too, was still in existence. All 
the rest of the morning and afternoon, the two 
wagons ran merrily toward the Southern Avenue 
sand hill, or creaked slowly and laboriously back 
to the “Tigers’ Home Grounds,” with such good 
effect that but a scant ten feet of path remained to 
be filled in when John’s paper route called him. 

Silvey and he sauntered over that evening after 
supper to make the final inspection of the work. 

“Just like the park diamonds, isn’t it?” he asked, 
as Silvey stretched a pair of weary arms. 


THE GREATEST GAME IN THE WORLD ” 323 


“ And Sid said he was glad he thought of it. And 
we worked like everything while he stood around ! ” 

John scarcely heard him as he stood, eyes adream, 
looking over the even, carefully raked turf. ‘‘The 
grand stand comes next. Bill. Do you think we 
ought to tear down the shack for lumber ? ” 

Bill demurred. That shaky building occupied too 
great a place of importance in the boys’ lives to 
justify such a sacrifice. Surely there were enough 
new buildings being erected in the neighborhood 
without that. 

Sid made an announcement on the following Mon- 
day which made the postponement of that last bit 
of construction work imperative. 

“ Saw the captain of the ‘Jeffersons,’ ” he beamed 
as the little group gathered about him on the base- 
ball diamond. “We’re going to play ’em this 
Saturday.” 

“What?” John exploded. Sid nodded his head. 

“ They’ve got the best team around,” Silvey 
broke out. “And they’ve been practicing in the 
park ever since the snow melted. How can we lick 
’em now ? ” 

Sid shrugged his shoulders aggravatingly. 

“Haven’t you any brains at all?” John stormed. 

“ I’m captain,” Sid snapped back at the insurgents. 
“I’m running this team. If you don’t like it, you 
can quit ! ” 

The voice of Skinny Mosher, the peacemaker, 


324 


A SON OF THE CITY 


broke in: '‘Aw, kids, never mind. Tain’t so bad 
as it looks. Let’s start practicing now, and maybe 
we can beat ’em anyway.” 

It was excellent advice, and the boys scampered 
over the tracks for home, to return singly and in 
pairs with their baseball paraphernalia. John took 
up his old position at first, and Silvey donned his 
catcher’s mitt to receive and return imaginary balls 
thrown by the other players. Red Brown and Perry 
Alford stationed themselves at second and short- 
stop respectively, while the Harrison boys stood 
around and waited until duty should call them to 
the outfield. 

"Where’s Skinny and Sid?” asked John as he 
glanced around. 

"There’s Mosher, now,” exclaimed Silvey, as a 
tall and diminutive figure made their way down the 
railroad embankment. "Kid brother with him as 
usual.*” 

"Had to bring him,” the unfortunate elder boy 
exclaimed when he reached the diamond. "Ma 
wouldn’t let me come unless I did.” ' 

They accepted the affliction resignedly. " He can 
watch,” said Silvey. "Come on, John. Toss up 
your little ball while we’re waiting.” 

Accordingly, the first baseman brought out a lop- 
sided ten-cent ball and threw it toward third. 
Skinny Mosher dropped the sphere as if it were a 
hot coal. 


THE GREATEST GAME IN THE WORLD ” 325 


‘'Go easy/^ he cautioned. “Sid hasn’t brought 
my glove yet.” 

The elder Harrison boy who aspired to fill Joe 
Menard’s place, ran over to the pitcher’s box, and 
the tossing was resumed. From third to first, sec- 
ond to pitcher, and then to Silvey, and back again. 
Muscles became limbered and arms more certain of 
their mark. Skinny misgauged a swift throw from 
John and caught the ball on the tip of his fingers. 

“Jiminy!” he yelled. “What you think you’re 
doing? ” 

“ Butter fingers, butter fingers ! ” came the taunt- 
ing reply. 

“Don’t care. I’m going to wait for my glove. 
Here’s Sid now.” 

The team turned as one man and stared in aston- 
ishment. Their captain had delayed his return to 
don his new baseball suit, and from the spikes on 
his shoes to the visor of his red-trimmed cap, he was 
a perfect miniature of a professional player. Even 
John was unable to restrain an envious stare at the 
natty flannel shirt and knickerbockers, and the 
maroon and white stockings. 

“ Cost eight dollars, it did,” Sid announced, as he 
acknowledged the unconscious homage with a satis- 
fied smile. “ Dad gave it to me ’cause I was cap- 
tain. Here’s the gloves and the ball and the bat. 
Let’s start practice.” 

They ran back to their positions. Sid, bat in 


326 


A SON OF THE CITY 


hand, stood by the plate, tossed the league ball high 
in the air, and knocked the sphere easily toward 
third base. Skinny, with the confidence engendered 
by a well-padded hand, scooped the ball with sur- 
prising accuracy and returned it. Again Sid re- 
peated the process. 

Red pranced impatiently up and down on the sand 
path. Give me one this time,” he begged. ‘‘ Don’t 
send ’em all to Skinny.” 

The captain of the ‘‘Tigers” nodded and hit the 
descending ball with all his force a little too far for 
Red to reach. A quick glance showed the impend- 
ing catastrophe. 

“ Hey, kid, get out of the way,” he yelled. The 
warning came too late. The ball skimmed over the 
grass, struck a hummock which had been overlooked 
by the builders of the diamond, and ricochetted up- 
ward into the hapless Mosher youngster’s stomach. 

Yells filled the air. Skinny, unwilling slave, 
stooped over his prostrate brother. “ Hurt much ? ” 
he queried anxiously. John glanced at his watch in 
boredom, for such occurrences had lost their nov- 
elty long months ago. 

“ Paper time,” he called, as he made for the tracks. 
A last glance back before the dairy buildings cut off 
the view, showed the wailing infant trudging sturd- 
ily toward the walk. Every line of his figure indi- 
cated maddened determination to tell his mother on 
the whole team. 


THE GREATEST GAME IN THE WORLD ” 327 


Tuesday and Wednesday sped past. It became 
more and more apparent that a substitute for Joe 
Menard must be found if the ‘‘Tigers” were to 
have even a fighting chance of holding their own 
with the ancient enemy. Time and again Haldane 
Harrison took his place to whip a few slightly curv- 
ing balls down to the critical Silvey, only to realize 
that his knowledge of the art was sadly deficient. 
They all had a try at it, eventually, while Sid stood 
by with a sarcastic grin on his face and watched their 
futile efforts. 

The next noon, John walked home with Louise, 
a custom sadly broken since the baseball season had 
begun, and passed a stockily built lad who was 
bouncing a baseball against the side of a house but 
a few doors from the Martin’s apartment. On the 
way back, he stopped to watch. The newcomer re- 
turned his stare with equal interest. 

“ ’Lo,” said John, as he walked nearer. 

“ ’Lo,” said the boy with an ingratiating smile. 

“ My name’s John Fletcher.” 

“Mine’s Francis Yager,” spoken with equal curt- 
ness. 

“Live here?” asked the first baseman of the 
“Tigers.” The boy admitted that such was the 
case. “ There’s my house,” explained John, point- 
ing with an inkstained finger. 

There was an awkward silence. Francis bounced 
his ball against the side of the house a few times. 


328 


A SON OF THE CITY 


“Ever play baseball?” asked John, as the boy 
made a difficult catch of an erratic return from a 
drain pipe. The newcomer turned, his face lighted 
with interest. 

“Just bet you!” he beamed. “Back home we 
had a team and I played — ” 

“Pitcher?” asked John, breathlessly. The new 
boy nodded. Truly the fates were proving kind to 
the “Tigers” that day. 

“ What can you throw ? ” 

“An ‘in,’ and an ‘out,’ and a ‘slow ball.’ ” The 
expert paused in the summary of his attainments. 
“ Last year, I was just getting so’s I could pitch a 
drop. But it didn’t work very well.” 

Dinner, maternal lectures, all were forgotten as 
John poured out the tale of the “Tigers’” woes to 
his new friend. Arm in arm, they made their way 
up to Silvey’s house. That catcher tried out the 
new recruit, while John watched eagerly, and pro- 
nounced him all and more than he had claimed for 
himself. 

“We’ll fix the ‘Jeffersons’ now,” John shouted 
confidently. “You can hold ’em, Francis, old boy.” 

He marched the new member over the tracks to 
the ball grounds, that afternoon, and introduced him 
to the delighted team. Sid heard Silvey’s tale of 
the pitcher’s prowess with ill-disguised resentment. 

“He can play in the outfield,” he said shortly. 
“ I’m going to do it myself.” 


THE GREATEST GAME IN THE WORLD ” 329 


‘‘You!” shrieked John. 

“Yes, me!” 

“ You couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn with 
a baseball. Pitch ! Only reason we let you play at 
all last year was because — ” He checked himself 
suddenly. Sid only smiled. 

“ Pm captain,” he replied, as John finished. “ Pm 
running this team. Pm going to pitch, and if you 
don’t like it, you can quit.” He walked over to the 
position, leaving a dazed and resentful first base- 
man behind him. 

That evening, John returned from the paper route 
to eat supper listlessly and skip up to Silvey’s as 
soon as he had finished. The team, his team which 
he had built up with such care last year, was going 
to the dogs, and he craved sympathy from Bill about 
it. 

“ He’s crazy,” his chum sighed when John’s out- 
burst had slackened. “ You should a’ seen him when 
you’d gone for the papers, today. First he threw 
over my head, and then to one side, ’most out of my 
reach. He hit the ground twice before he could 
throw a fast one over the plate, and Francis laughed 
at him. ‘ Well,’ says Sid,^ ‘ I guess I can learn be- 
fore Saturday. Pve got a book at home that tells 
all about it.’ ” 

“Maybe — ” said John, thoughtfully. 

“ Maybe what ? ” 

“Maybe the ‘Jeffersons’ ’ll make so many runs 


330 


A SON OF THE CITY 


in the first inning that he’ll have to quit. Then 
Francis can play, and perhaps we can catch up with 
them.” 

'‘But he won’t let Francis learn my signals,” Sil- 
vey complained. " Says he’s captain and we’ve got 
to do just what he says.” 

" Get Francis to come down to your yard tomor- 
row noon,” John counseled, as he stood up and 
stretched himself. "Teach him then.” 

Thus it came about that, unknown to Sid, two 
small figures rehearsed for a good hour, such in- 
tricacies as "Two fingers against the glove means 
a swift one,” " when I pound like this, it means an 
‘out,’” and "this means an 'in’” until Francis be- 
came letter-perfect in them. 

That Friday afternoon, the "Tigers” gathered 
for the final practice before the first and most impor- 
tant game of the season. Silvey knocked ground- 
ers innumerable to the different members of the in- 
field who handled them with uncanny dexterity, or 
sent long flies out to the waiting players until he 
grew tired and Sid supplanted him. Red Brown 
and one or two of the fleeter spirits of the team raced 
from base to base, practicing a little trick of sliding 
which Red had noticed at a park baseball game, and 
Sid took his position as pitcher for a few minutes’ 
erratic practice with Silvey. John left them for 
the night, wavering between confidence and de- 
spair as to the result of the morrow. Everything 


THE GREATEST GAME IN THE WORLD ” 331 


had gone marvelously well with the exception of 
Sid. 

“If he quits early,” Silvey consoled him as they 
sat on the Fletcher front steps just before bed time, 
“we’ll win after all.” 

“ We’ll have to,” said John, stubbornly, as he rose 
in answer to his mother’s call. “ So-long, Bill.” 



CHAPTER XVII 


he’s '‘through with girls” 

'V T INE o’clock in the morning saw the " Tigers ” 
^ assembled in front of the Silvey home. Sid 
wore his elaborate outfit; Bill, the ragged football 
trousers which had done duty in the autumn, and 
John sported a battered cap. Other uniforms among 
them there were not, but the team made a brave 
showing, nevertheless, as it trooped lustily toward 
the corner. No scampering across the railroad em- 
bankment this time for the members. A baseball 
game demanded a more ceremonious arrival on the 
grounds. They neared the viaduct and Red and 
Perry Alford began a tattoo on the cement walk with 
the baseball bats. The other players broke into that 
time-honored refrain. 

Hip! Hip! 

I had a good job 
And I quit. 

My name is Sam 

And I don’t give a — [pause] 

Hippetty hippetty, hip ! 

With the corner and adult ears left behind them, 
Sid, in a spirit of bravado, filled in the tabooed ex- 
pletive and aroused the awed admiration of his sub- 
ordinates. 


332 


HE’S “THROUGH WITH GIRLS 


333 


Past the long, low, red art shops they swaggered, 
keeping perfect time to the chant as they rounded 
the corner. John who was a little ahead of the 
others, broke into a sharp cry of dismay. 

‘‘Look! Our grounds!” 

The consternation which was on his face spread 
to theirs. The shaky, weather-beaten fence by the 
sidewalk had been torn down before their arrival. 
At intervals, load after load of building stone rum- 
bled over hastily formed paths of heavy planks. 
Further in, on the field, from the home-plate north- 
ward over the painstakingly levelled earth, harnessed 
horses sweated and tugged at the traces as scoop 
after scoop bit into the turf and came up filled with 
dirt to be emptied against the railroad tracks. 

“Flats,” gasped Silvey, as they drew nearer. 
John said nothing, but his lower lip trembled as the 
last trace of the beautifully sanded base lines disap- 
peared under the excavators’ devastating hands. 

“ ’Tis a pity,” said the kindly Irishman, who noted 
their approach, “ but it has to be, I guess, kids. Yis, 
the other team went home, fifteen minutes ago. Said 
they didn’t guess there’d be a game today.” 

They stopped in dazed bewilderment to watch 
the progress of the foundation work. At last, John, 
sick at heart, slunk away. He wanted to be home, 
away from everyone until he could get control of 
his feelings. As he came down the street with his 
baseball glove dangling aimlessly in one hand, he 


334 


A SON OF THE CITY 


stumbled over the Mosher youngster who was intent 
upon some childish pursuit in the dust of the gutter. 

“Get out of the way,” he stormed angrily. To 
vent his disappointment upon even so small an of- 
fender was a relief. The infant smiled maliciously. 

“Johnny an’ Louise, Johnny an’ Louise,” he 
chanted, reviving the cry of the autumn before. 

“ Well, what about it,” demanded John belliger- 
ently. 

“ Louise had a soda with Sid. Saw her, saw her ! ” 

“When?” Had Louise, too, forsaken him in 
this hour of grief ? 

“Yesterday. Sidney an’ Louise, Sidney an’ 
Louise,” came the taunting revision. 

John’s face set. All the wrongs which Sid had 
perpetrated since the Halloween party — the earlier 
sodas, the persistence which had culminated in the 
theater affair, the baseball election, and his arrogance 
since that time — clamored for revenge. He’d get 
even, he would. He’d go back and punch Sid’s face 
in, and muss that new suit, and throw his baseball 
gloves up on a house roof. Then Mr. Sid would 
quit monkeying with his girl. 

The appearance of that gentleman around the cor- 
ner put a stop to his meditations. John waited until 
he sauntered unsuspectingly up to him. 

“ Say, Sid!” 

“Yes?” A note in the voice put the captain of 
the “Tigers” on his guard. 


HE’S “THROUGH WITH GIRLS 


335 


“ What’s this I hear about Louise ? ” 

N-nothing.” 

“ Been drinking sodas with her again, have you ? ” 

“Who told you?” Sid made a futile effort to 
edge past the inquisitor. 

“Never mind who. Promise not to do it any 
more or I’ll — ” He clenched one fist and drew it 
back threateningly. 

“ Guess I won’t,” retorted Sid with sudden spirit. 
“ Guess I’ve got as much right to drink sodas with 
her as anybody. Who’s going to stop me ? ” 

“I am!” 

“You,” scornfully. 

At this moment, the very cause of the dissension 
came skipping along with the inevitable package 
from the grocery under one arm. Feminine intui- 
tion told her that trouble was lurking in the air, and 
she would have passed but John held up a detaining 
hand. 

“Louise, you’ve been drinking sodas with Sid 
again.” 

“Haven’t either,” in the same breath came the 
admission, “who told you?” 

John gave her a searching glance. “Tell this 
guy” he said with infinite- scorn, “that you won’t 
have anything more to do with him. Tell him you’re 
my girl, Louise,” he added incautiously. 

The lady’s head went back to a warning angle. 

“ Go on I ” John ordered. 


336 


A SON OF THE CITY 


“ Guess I won’t ! ” she snapped, angered by his 
persistence. “ Guess I won’t ! ” she repeated angrily. 
‘‘ ’Cause I’m not anybody’s girl. So there ! ” With 
nose held regally in the air and knees strangely joint- 
less, she walked away from the pair. 

“ Ya-a-a-h,” jeered Sid incautiously. 

John drove out, full strength, with his right fist 
upon his adversary’s nose. Sid stepped back in dis- 
may. It wasn’t fair, punching without the prelim- 
inary tilt of words and wary skirmishing. Again 
John set upon him and he turned, dodged behind a 
tree, and fled for home. Down the street they tore 
at top speed. Inch by inch, the space between the 
two diminished as they passed the A1 fords, the Har- 
risons, and finally arrived at the DuPree iron gate. 

‘‘Ma-a-a-a!” yelled Sid, as he struggled with the 
handle. Come quick, come quick.” 

The gate suddenly yielded. Sid sprang inside, 
up the front steps, and into the hallway. There he 
turned, locked the screen door, and stuck out his 
tongue at his adversary. 

‘‘ Ya-a-a-a ! ” he taunted. 

John contemplated an attack upon the flimsy 
screening, but a remnant of wisdom withheld him. 

Fletcher, 

The Fletcher, 

The old fly-catcher! 


came the cry from the porch. 


HE’S “THROUGH WITH GIRLS 


337 


‘‘Think you’re smart,” John glared. “Just dare 
you to come down here ! Just dare you to ! ” 

“The old fly-catcher” continued. John opened 
his lips for a reply in kind. 

Sid DuPree 
Went out on a spree 
And never got back 
’Til half-past three. 

The hero of the verse was struck suddenly dumb 
by this display of poetical ability. Again John re- 
peated his latest composition. He was beginning to 
enjoy himself immensely. At the third repetition 
of the adventures of Sid, a window creaked nois- 
ily up. 

“John Fletcher,” came the harsh voice from the 
upper window. “You’re a nasty little boy, and if 
you don’t leave Sidney alone. I’ll telephone your 
mother.” 

“Ya-a-a-ah,” jeered Sid in an undertone. John 
looked and longed. 

“ Go on,” urged Mrs. DuPree. “ The telephone’s 
right here in the hallway.” 

He decided that discretion was the better part of 
valor and crossed over to his own porch. Once up 
in his room, he threw himself on the bed, and as the 
excitement of the chase wore off began to realize 
the extent of the morning’s losses. 

The athletic field upon which they had labored 


338 


A SON OF THE CITY 


SO long and carefully, was torn to pieces — gone 
forever. Worse than that, Louise wasn’t his girl 
any more. She’d said so herself. No more sam- 
ples of cookery, no more confidential little walks 
to and from school, no more squirrel-feeding ex- 
cursions. And the glorious dream of the future 
was as completely demolished as the “Tigers’ 
Home Grounds.” There could be no thousand 
dollars and a home when he reached his majority 
now. 

He lay staring at the pattern in the ceiling paper, 
sobbing ever so little now and then, for some min- 
utes, then wrenched himself miserably over on his 
side. 

There he found that horrid old bank staring him 
in the face, that same pig bank which stood a grin- 
ning monument to his industry of the past months. 
But what good was the paper route now ? or where 
the pleasure in dropping his weekly income into that 
long, narrow slot ? Louise wasn’t his girl any more. 
She’d said so, herself. 

In a sudden fit of spite, he sprang up and seized 
the heavy, sneering bit of pottery in both hands. 
The next moment, it crashed to the floor and pennies, 
nickels, dimes, and even half-dollars rolled out on 
the carpet or mingled with the shattered bits of 
china. He stood astounded at the number for a mo- 
ment, then gathered them up on his bed, and took 
careful count. 


HE’S “THROUGH WITH GIRLS 


339 


Thirty-eight dollars and 
fifty-three cents? He could 
scarcely believe his eyes. 

Then he lay back, not quite 
so grief-stricken, and stared 
thoughtfully into space until 
Mrs. Fletcher called him for 
dinner. 

At the table, that evening. 


and Afty-thrme emnts.** 

he was unusually quiet. As he finished his 
last slice of bread and butter, he looked up at his 
father. 

“Dad, if a fellow earns a lot of money, all by 
himself, he can spend it any way he wants, can’t 
he?” 

Mr. Fletcher nodded. “ Why, son ? ” 

“I was just wondering. That’s all.” 

A week later, Louise was sitting on the street 
curbing in front of her apartment building, when a 
crimson-clad baseball warrior on a new bicycle sped 
over the macadam and came to a sudden halt beside 
her. She raised her eyes in astonished recognition. 
It was her late fiance. 

“’Lo.” 

“’Lo.” 





**Thirty-eight dollar » 



340 


A SON OF THE CITY 


‘‘Like my new wheel?” 

“Uhu.” 

“Bought it out of the money I was saving so’s 
we could get married. Cost me twenty-one dollars, 
and it’s got puncture-proof tires and a real coaster 
brake. Just watch me ride it ! ” 

He sped off, rode free for a moment, threw the 
brake on and came to a sudden stop, then cut a figure 
eight over the paving. The clear spring sun made 
miniature rainbows in the shining, rapidly revolv- 
ing spokes, and an early robin warbled his approval 
of the performance from his seat in a linden’s top. 

“I can ride without touching the handles, too,” 
he boasted, as he guided the wheel back to her. 
“ Isn’t it peachy ? ” 

She nodded. The long, curving bars bore a sug- 
gestion of possible rides on this beautiful steel-and- 
rubber creation, if their quarrel could be healed, and 
she held out a tentative olive branch. 

“ Want to play jacks ? ” 

John shook his head. “Going over to the park 
baseball diamond with the ‘Tigers.’ We’re going 
to play the ‘ Jeffersons,’ this afternoon.” 

“ But your paper route ? ” 

He laughed joyously. “ Sold it to the newspaper 
man. He gave me three dollars and twenty-five 
cents for the customers.” 

“Oh!” There was a pause. 

“Like my baseball suit?” he asked. 


HE’S “THROUGH WITH GIRLS 


341 


She gazed at the flaming horror and nodded en- 
thusiastically. 

“ You ought to see me run that team ! ” 

‘‘You?’' she exclaimed. “Why, I thought Sid 
was captain.” 

“He was/^ with zestful emphasis on the verb. 
“ But I bought nine baseball dollar uniforms and a 
lot of gloves and two bats, and a real league ball out 
of my money, so the kids fired Sid and elected me. 
He isn’t even on the team any more.” 

“ 0-o-oh ! ” Truly John was becoming an impor- 
tant figure in the juvenile world. 

“ And I’ve got a dollar and thirteen cents left for 
candy and peanuts,” he concluded. 

Louise studied the confident, freckled face before 
her, the sparkling bicycle with its glossy saddle and 
acetylene lamp, the heavily padded baseball glove on 
the nickeled handle bars, and then their owner again. 
She took the last remnant of her pride and stamped 
it under foot in a wave of regret. 

“ John,” she said, shyly. 

“Yes?” 

“I won’t have anything more to do with Sid.” 

The captain of the “ Tigers ” only laughed. “ You 
can go with Sid all you want, and drink all the sodas 
he’ll pay for. I don’t care, because — ” he leaned his 
weight forward on the pedals and started for the park 
so suddenly that she barely caught his parting words, 
“ I’m through with girls. I’m going to be a bachelor ! ” 


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